


A Love That Lights The Whole Sky

by yokomya



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: ADHD, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Human, Anxiety, Asthma, Bullying, Childhood Memories, Claudia Stilinski's Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Minor Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Minor Lydia Martin/Stiles Stilinski, Minor Vernon Boyd/Erica Reyes, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-01 12:17:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 46,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5205617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yokomya/pseuds/yokomya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn’t until the sun has set and they’re heading back down the rope to the house that Scott hears Stiles mumbling to himself from behind, with his head low and his hands fisted in his pockets.</p>
<p>“Nothing has to change.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Protector

_Even after all this time_

_The Sun never says to the Earth_

_“You owe me”_

_Look what happens with a love like that_

_It lights the whole sky_

_\- Hafiz_

 

When he’s four years old, Scott's dad leaves him at the park, promising _I'll be right back_ , _gotta pick something up_ and disappears for an hour. Used to being alone, Scott doesn't mind sitting in the empty sandbox, under a blinding sun.

He doesn't mind playing with the hot sand, letting it slip through his fingers, mesmerized by the grainy substance. When all the sand has fallen back into the sandbox, he picks it back up, and lets it drop all over again. Scott babbles and giggles to himself, liking the sand a lot, until he's interrupted.

There’s a boy squatting in front of him, curiosity in his bright eyes. Scott moves over so the boy has room to sit and shows him how pretty the sand is. There’s plenty so he doesn’t mind sharing.

“No fun,” the intruder says, proceeding to cram the sand together and harden it. Scott doesn't know what the boy is doing by smooshing the sand together but because he wants to play with him, he helps form the sides.

They laugh while smacking the sand around, swatting powder through the air. When they’re done patting it down as much as they want, the other boy claps with a squeal.

Scott is happy.

He notices the boy isn’t looking at him anymore but passed him, out at the park. There’s a woman there, pale skin and dark hair. She’s smiling and laughing next to a man dressed in uniform, a badge pinned to his shirt.

Eventually, Scott starts playing with the sand again, tickling his palms with the dust until the sound of a zipper and water leaking break his concentration.

The beautiful sandcastle is crumbling and it’s turning wet, like the ocean came up and destroyed it. But they’re not at the beach and it’s not raining.

The pale boy zips his pants back up and looks content with his work. The castle is a mushy pile now and seeing it forms tears at the corner of Scott's eyes.

The boy peed on the castle that they built. He messed it up even though they worked so hard together. It’s not fair.

Not long afterwards, a shadow looms over their sunny spot because the dark haired woman is hovering over the two toddlers, gasping.

“That wasn’t nice at all, Stiles,” she lectures, upset, picking him up roughly. Even though she’s mad, Stiles is grinning from ear to ear. He nuzzles into her neck and yawns.

She takes him away.

And Scott is alone again.

 

 

Every other afternoon, Scott's dad leaves him at the park while he runs his errand and the boy from the sandbox shows up once and a while too. The boy introduces himself as "Stiles" and Scott forgets about the sandcastle incident, instantly warming up to him. They babble and throw their hands around to communicate, laughing at whatever they find funny, not bothering much with any of the other kids. 

Before the daylight is spent, Stiles inevitably acts up, pushing other kids off the playground, and his mom will undoubtedly come grab him. Scott thinks it's weird because whenever Stiles is bad, she picks him up and he always smiles, like it's the best thing in the world to get in trouble. 

Whenever Stiles' dad is there - Scott remembers him as _the cowboy_ \- and Scott's dad shows up to take him home, the two end up in an argument. It ends with Scott's dad roughly dragging him home and slurring words at Scott like  _he can't tell me how to raise you_ or  _I'll drink if I wanna drink_. Things that Scott can't possibly understand.  _  
_

But when his dad yells  _no more of that damn Stiles kid, you hear me?_ Scott freezes up and then balls his eyes out.

 

When Scott starts Elementary school, he sits in the back of the classroom, too timid to actively talk to anyone. All of the other kids are much rowdier, already teasing and playing with each other. He hides behind his backpack, looking down at his hands shamefully.

His mom told him that his first day would be fun and that he would make so many new friends. She made him promise to be on his best behavior and to meet someone new. He doesn't know how to do that.

“Hey.”

The voice belongs to a boy in a red hoodie with moles across his cheek. It's Stiles. He’s cocking his head, invading Scott’s space to look into his half-hidden face. Scott grows embarrassed.

Scott hesitates to speak, even though they've played plenty of times in the park before. Maybe it's because he remembers his dad's words, the warning to stay away from Stiles. The memory is fleeting however because Stiles takes out a pack of skittles from his pocket. 

"Wanna share?"

Scott nods quickly and reaches out to grip the bag. They both pull at the same time on accident and rip it open, spilling skittles all over the floor. The kids in class start giggling madly and the boys look at each other. _  
_

Seeing Stiles' genuine smile, Scott forgets about his dad. He doesn't think anything about Stiles could ever be bad.

 

 

 

In second grade, Scott has his first asthma attack.

It’s a humid day so he isn’t supposed to be outside for recess, not running around at least - for asthma reasons - but Stiles wouldn't stop annoying the teacher until she let him go.  _He'll be okay. I'll watch him._

Now Scott’s suffering the consequences. He’s wheezing, hunched over and coughing all over the ground, unable to catch his breath. His head is swimming and the other second graders become blurry objects around him. Some of them are screaming and some are just staring. Finally a kid yells for a teacher - that's Lydia - and another kid appears at his side, rubbing his spine.

That's Stiles.

But Stiles is supposed to be playing baseball on the field with the other boys - he told Scott it would be real quick and that he would play with him right after - but Stiles is here instead, patting Scott’s back gently. If it weren’t for the blood rush to Scott’s ears, he might catch what Stiles is trying to say. Scott’s eyes are watering and he’s going faint until something familiar is pressed against his lips.

It’s his inhaler.

And Stiles is the one holding it.

A few puffs of air and Scott can feel the tingle coming back to his body. His brain whirls a little less and he pants a couple more times before easing back down to Earth.

Back to the burning asphalt and the chalk dust going up his nose and to Stiles’ grass stained face.

“You’re okay, buddy,” Stiles assures him. He doesn’t sound like a second grader. It’s the voice of someone older, like the words were stolen at some point and are being reused for Scott.

It’s the first time Scott hears Stiles’ voice wobble. The only second grader to get in a fight this year and he’s on the verge of crying.

The attack subsides and Scott forgets to thank Stiles but that’s okay. The teacher is there now with the school nurse and they check Scott, speaking to each other in hurried whispers. He hears the words _hospital_ and _emergency_. The nurse is glowering at the teacher, blaming her for the incident -  but Scott isn’t paying attention.

He notices Stiles’ face screw up at the words- as if they announced Santa Clause wasn’t coming to town this year. Scott only knows what a hospital is because his mom works at one. Maybe Stiles' mom works at one too? When Stiles catches Scott looking, his expression flickers back to normal as quickly as it came and he squeezes Scott’s shoulder in reassurance.

In the end, the school nurse decides the inhaler helped enough but forces Scott back inside. The teacher puts both boys in timeout once the nurse leaves and they don't see how that's fair.

But Scott thinks it's okay.

Because Stiles is with him.

 

 

On a Friday afternoon, Scott’s mom drops him off at the Elementary school, landing a quick kiss on his cheek. He returns it and hops out, running into Stiles getting off the bus. They immediately start talking about comics and video games, getting into a debate over their favorite superheroes.

The argument lasts the entire day, annoying half the kids in class who tell them to shut up. Stiles doesn't get the hint or doesn’t care and rambles to his heart’s content but Scott doesn’t wanna talk anymore because one kid tattletales. 

“Spider man is the best! He doesn’t need super strength to save people!”

Scott doesn’t reply this time and Stiles frowns, leaning over their table.

“Scott?”

Scott shrugs, scribbling on the addition problems due at the end of the day. Stiles squints, skeptical, and crosses his arms.

“Who cares about that?”

“I do.”

“But it isn’t fun. Let’s do something fun. Come on.”

Scott has trouble denying Stiles but the hissy fit that their classmate had earlier has him glued to his chair.

“Scott, I said come on.”

“I’m not done.”

Stiles reaches over to take the piece of paper from Scott but he moves it out of reach.

“Stop, Stiles!”

“Why? You gonna tattletale too?”

“Do we need a timeout, Stiles?” Their teacher asks, coming up to where they were sitting. She has a hand on her hip and she pushes her horned glasses up her face. Stiles looks like he has something smart to say back but thankfully keeps his mouth shut.

“You two be quiet and do your work. I don’t want to call any parents.”

As soon as she leaves, Stiles chucks one of the building blocks over the table in frustration.

“Call, see if I care.”

Scott doesn’t know what to say.

 

 

The first night Stiles spends at Scott’s house, they’re in third grade. It’s the most fun either of them have ever had. They watch a few movies that Scott’s mom left out on the table and then build a blanket fort to tell scary stories under. Scott isn’t very good at telling them but Stiles is, going _boo!_ at all the right places. They always end up laughing in the end.

It’s still daylight outside so they throw the blanket off and Stiles has an idea of what they can do next.

“Adventure!” he cheers, leading Scott to the backyard.

There’s a forest behind the house and Stiles explains that they’re going to go look for monsters. Scott's stomach curls and he doesn't like that idea but doesn't want to disappoint Stiles so he's quiet. It's Stiles' first time over after all so he might not come back if Scott is mean to him.

Stiles runs in the house and returns with a backpack slung over his tiny shoulder and a thumbs-up.

“I got a flashlight. My dad always takes one when he adventures," he says proudly, flickering it on and off before shoving it down into the backpack. "And the sandwiches your mom made too."

They get to the edge of the woods and Scott stops, looking at the leaf covered ground sheepishly. Blends of orange and yellow and red fall from the sky like paper planes, landing in a pile by their feet.

“What is it?” Stiles asks impatiently, vamped up for their trip and disappointed at the sudden stop.

“What if the monsters are hungry and want to eat us?” Scott asks, poking his fingers together, distracting himself.

“That’s why I brought the sandwiches. The monsters won’t want us if we give them food.”

“But,” Scott coughs, “I can’t go anywhere without my inhaler.”

“Already got it,” Stiles retorts, revealing the little green and white thing from the smallest pocket. “Anything else?”

“I have to. . . Pee?”

“You peed before we left. Come on, Scott.”

Nervously, Scott follows Stiles into the woods. The trees are half dead because it’s the middle of fall and the leaves crunch under their shoes, echoing in the silence. There’s nothing magical to be seen in the woods really, at least Scott doesn’t see anything. He wishes they could go home and play in their blanket fort instead of this.

Every now and then Stiles will explain the kinds of creatures they’re looking out for. Scott nods but doesn’t understand any of it. He doesn't know how Stiles learned about this stuff in the first place. Nobody at school taught them.

A few times, Stiles gets overexcited and asks Scott if he sees _that over there_ but Scott always misses it. By the fourth time it happens, Scott worries that maybe Stiles has a connection to the supernatural that he just doesn’t. That makes him sad.

He doesn’t want Stiles to leave him behind.

Scott drinks some of the water that Stiles packed and then Stiles does and they stumble down a steep hill, both almost crashing into each other at the bottom.

“Hey, look,” Stiles points. There’s a small creek, narrow enough to leap over. Playfully, they pretend to shove each other in until Stiles actually trips and falls. Scott gasps but luckily it’s shallower than they thought so Stiles only gets wet up to his ankles.

“No nymphs,” he whines, getting out of the water. Scott doesn’t know what that is but he doesn’t like to see Stiles’ disappointed.

“Maybe there are some the other way?”

“Nah,” Stiles sighs, “They only like the water. But we might see a troll. Let’s go look!”

Going up a particularly steep hill makes Scott start breathing heavily. Stiles doesn’t hesitate to stop and help him the rest of the way. He then pulls out the inhaler and watches Scott take a couple needed breathes.

“Better?” Stiles asks, concerned.

Scott nods.

Before long, the sun is setting and Scott realizes he has no idea where they are. All the tress look the same, like they've been walking in circles. Stiles takes the flashlight out and beams it over the emptiness.

“Can we go home?” Scott asks quietly. Stiles looks like he’s going to protest but doesn’t and they start walking back the way they came.

The bare trees are starting to freak Scott out. Their limbs are curvy, twisting in on each other, and he has to rub his eyes to remind himself there aren’t faces on the trunks. It's getting colder too so he hides his hands in his jacket pockets, trying to keep on par with Stiles’ brisk walk.

“Hm. I didn’t think we went this far,” Stiles huffs, hopping back over the creek with Scott.

The sun is disappearing more and more from view and Scott swallows hard. He’s not going to cry. He has to be brave, like Stiles.

And Stiles _is_ brave. He zaps the flashlight all over the woods, trying to retrace their steps calmly. More than anything Stiles seems annoyed that they didn’t find any monsters.

Scott shivers and shamefully drops his head. His eyes are watering. He's never going to see his mom again. They're stuck here. He's cold and afraid because the trees won’t stop reaching out at them and sometimes he thinks he sees a glimpse of glowing eyes in the bushes. Before he knows it, a little noise escapes his throat.

The flashlight beams in his face and Stiles is turned around.

“Scott?”

No answer.

“Hey,” Stiles says quickly, voice softening, the flashlight now pointed to the ground. “We’re getting out of here. We’re gonna be home in a sec so it'll be okay.”

“I’m scared,” Scott sniffs, huddling up in his jacket more. He wipes his nose - which is turning red from the cold now.

Stiles looks like he wants to say something but doesn’t. He shifts the backpack on his shoulder to fit more comfortably and then reaches his empty hand out to take Scott’s. It causes Scott’s body to stop trembling and he doesn't feel like crying anymore.

They keep walking like that, Stiles more determined and Scott less afraid.

Stiles leads them, slowing for Scott to catch his breath if he needs to, and continuing until the sun is completely gone from the horizon. Scott doesn't know how Stiles will get them back to the house now because they can barely see but that thought is interrupted when Stiles comes to a sudden stop and Scott runs into his back.

“See that?”

Scott follows Stiles’ gaze to the top of a tree and squints. He wants to see it this time, whatever Stiles can see. There, in the treetop is a winged creature with brilliant gold eyes, staring straight at them. It’s only for a second but Scott holds his breath and then the bird disappears soundlessly.

“You know what that was?”

“What?”

“A Griffin,” Stiles beams, bubbling over, “It was so cool! I mean we only saw it for a second but - seriously so cool!”

Scott gawks and Stiles squeezes his hand, pulling him along.

“We’ll be okay. Griffins are protectors from evil. We're safe now.”

At the time, Scott doesn’t know Stiles is making that up to comfort him. He doesn’t realize the bird is in reality just a Great Gray Owl. He believes Stiles. Without a doubt in the world. For the rest of the night, he holds his hand and he’s too amazed about the ‘Griffin’ to remember how scary the trees were.

By some miracle, they only walk a few more minutes before they’re out of the woods and in Scott’s backyard again.

“We did it!” Stiles yelps, running up to the back door and dropping to his knees to kiss the dirty doormat.

“Ew,” Scott laughs, wrinkling his nose. Being raised by a nurse had its setbacks in these situations.

They go inside and it’s only ten o’clock so Scott’s mom isn’t home yet. The two boys scarf down their sandwiches and go straight to bed. They planned to stay up all night on soda and candy and pretend to be asleep if Scott’s mom got home but the plan doesn't work out.

Because when she does get home, neither of them are faking it as she peeks in Scott’s room to make sure they’re safe and finds the two fast asleep on the cot by Scott's bed. It was meant for Stiles to sleep on.

But Scott ended up there anyways.

 

 

“You liiiike her.”

“Nuh-uh!”

“Yuh-huh!”

“I know you are but what am I?”

“In love with Lydia," Scott grins, tongue poked out.

Stiles throws an eraser at Scott’s nose and his cheeks pinken because Lydia walks up, her silky red hair braided neatly on her head.

“I’m picking up the book reports,” Lydia greets, carrying herself more like a lady than a little girl.

Scott takes his report out of his bag and hands it over, unaware of how Lydia’s eyes sparkle when she looks into his face. He then glances at Stiles who hasn’t moved and is now looking at anywhere but Lydia.

“Paper?” Lydia repeats to Stiles. Her hand is stuck out and the nails are painted a striking red to match the dab of gloss on her lips. She's the only girl in class that wears makeup.

“I don’t have it,” Stiles shrugs, “But that’s because-”

“We’re the only ones who read the book then,” Lydia cuts off, playing with one of her curls, speaking to just Scott. He's still looking at Stiles - who’s mouth is sort of ajared - until a few seconds of silence go by and he swivels to face her again.

“Huh?”

"You always hand in the work, Scott. You're so smart," she regards. He blushes at the praise and his voice goes higher. 

"But you're smarter!"

"Wow. That's the fist time a boy told me that," she muses, pleased, and twirls around to the other side of the room.

“Lydia is nice,” Scott observes, returning to his homework, finding Stiles watching him. After a minute, Stiles goes to the bookshelf in the corner and pulls a thick book out. He opens it up at his desk, fidgeting and muttering but ultimately concentrating. 

Stiles spends the rest of the day reading and doing the book report.

 

 

When Scott goes to school on the first day of fourth grade, he finds a stewing Stiles in their usual spot at the back of the class. He’s glaring across the room and Scott plops down next to him, eyebrows furrowing.

“Stiles?”

He says nothing so Scott wiggles a hand around in front of his face to get attention. He doesn't like being ignored.

“I don’t like him,” Stiles grumbles, swinging his legs under the table.

Scott doesn’t know who _him_ is until a boy walks up and Stiles automatically squints harder.

“I’m Theo,” the kid says, about as pale and skinny as Stiles. He’s smaller though with kind of crooked teeth and the first thing he does is sit in front of Scott.

“Why were you talking to Lydia?” Stiles questions out of nowhere, subtlety at absolute zero. Theo doesn’t seem offended and answers without batting a lash.

“She lives next door to me.”

“Are you kidding?” Stiles shrieks, “You should move somewhere else!”

“Why?” Theo asks, looking to Scott instead. Scott shakes his head.

“He likes Lydia.”

“Scott!”

“Sorry,” Scott giggles.

“Traitor!”

“I said sorry,” Scott whines, hoping Stiles isn’t actually upset with him. Theo eyes the two of them and puts his face against his palm, pressing his elbow into Scott’s desk.

“Can I be friends with you guys?”

Scott doesn’t hesitate to respond with a _“Yeah su-”_ but Stiles interrupts with _“Hell no!”_

When it slips out, their teacher is at the back of the class in a flash and is yanking Stiles from his chair, hissing down at him.

“You’re cursing in my class? That’s a very bad way to start the year, Stiles, _very bad_. This means a phone call to the Sheriff.”

Scott’s heard his mom curse but she’s always told him that it was a grown up thing so hearing Stiles say _hell_  made him gasp and cover his own mouth in horror. Meanwhile, Theo seems amused by the whole ordeal and shuffles up closer to Scott’s desk.

“Wanna help me eat all these gummy worms?”

Scott misses what Theo says because he’s watching Stiles be pushed out of the class and a tinge of guilt goes through him. Stiles is always getting into trouble. He’s either too loud or too whiny or the other kids think he’s too annoying. How come everyone has to pick on him?

Stiles is gone now so he sighs and tries to listen to whatever Theo is talking about. He never noticed before but it’s hard to pay attention to other kids besides Stiles. None of them are as interesting.

"No, thank you. I like skittles more."

Before too long, Stiles comes back, blank expression painted on his normally colorful face. His eyes are bleak, his shoulders slumped, his lips thin. He doesn’t say a word to Scott or Theo and grabs his backpack, down casting his eyes before he leaves.

_No, wait,_ Scott thinks, _This isn't right_.

Scott’s seen Stiles get into trouble so many times. Over most things he does, like not knowing when to be quiet or not doing his homework or trying to argue with the teacher who just isn't having it. He’s never acted like this about it though, not even when he had to clean the whole library by himself.

Not like this. 

Concerned, Scott runs into the hallway after Stiles and calls after him.

He waits and waits but Stiles never looks back.

 

 

“Did you get in trouble?”

It’s the first thing that pops out of Scott’s mouth when he sees Stiles the next morning. He could barely sleep because he was so curious about what happened. After all, they don’t keep any secrets.

“No,” Stiles shrugs, sliding into his desk seat. “It’s nothing.”

“But-”

“Leave me alone, Scott!”

It’s silent after the outburst so Scott fiddles with his backpack strings for a while to avoid tearing up. He tugs at them over and over until he has an idea.

“Check this out, Stiles,” Scott says eagerly. “My mom got me these.”

He was so excited to show the Pokemon cards to Stiles that he didn’t even open them the night before.

Stiles is quiet - like something is still on his mind - but he sits up, interested when Scott lays the foiled card deck on the table. The two of them unwrap the deck together - more like rip apart the foil - eyes gleaming in wonder.

“Oh cool. How do we play?” Stiles asks, excitement returning on his face.

“I dunno. My cousin says you just get all of the cards. There’s a bunch but my mom won’t get me more until I’m done playing with these ones.”

They look through the deck, _oohing_ and _aahing_ at the holographic cards the most, pointing out which monsters were the coolest. Scott knows that Stiles likes monsters so he’s glad to see him going back to normal.

They start making up their own rules for playing until the teacher finds them and asks that they put the cards up and do their word problems. What strikes Scott as odd is _how_ she tells them. She says it very softly, looking at Stiles with an odd expression and promises they can have candy if they finish before the end of the day.

“She’s bossy,” Stiles mutters defiantly. He gets in a bad mood for a while but works on the problems regardless. While they're doing the work, Stiles' pencil scratching stops so Scott looks up curiously.

"I've been studying my multiplication," Stiles brags, showing Scott that he was already done. 

For some reason Scott feels a tug at his chest, super happy that Stiles finished before him. That Stiles tried really hard for once. He doesn't know why.

Stiles is looking somewhere else and Scott follows his gaze. When he finds it leads to Lydia, he sighs and laughs to himself. That's why.

At least Stiles has cheered up a little. 

Scott doesn’t want him to ever stop smiling.

“Let’s play more Pokemon tomorrow,” Scott tells Stiles at the end of the day, on the walk to the bus lot. Stiles kicks a pebble on the ground and nods enthusiastically.

They chat for a little while until Scott’s mom shows up. She parks close by and rolls the window down, beckoning her son over. Scott can see she’s still wearing her scrubs and knows she has to go back to work as soon as she drops him off at home. He wishes she could stay with him sometimes. She’s a lot more fun than his dad.

Turning to Stiles, Scott toys with the straps on his bag and juts his chin out.

“See you tomorrow. My mom’s here.”

“Bye,” Stiles replies as Scott turns to leave and there’s a hint of something in his voice. It sounds far off and not like Stiles at all. Before Scott gets to his mom’s car, he whirls around and shuffles through his bag quickly, pulling out a Pokemon card. It was the one Stiles admired the most earlier.

“Here, you have it.”

Stiles looks confused at first - like he’s in disbelief - before he grabs the hologram and turns it over in his hands.

“You’re giving me Ninetails?”

“Yeah.”

Stiles stares at it and then shakes his head, putting the card back out.

“But it’s a holographic one. You can’t collect them all if you give them away, you know.”

“I’m not giving it away,” Scott frowns, “I’m giving it to my best friend.”

Whatever was bothering Stiles that day must have hit him all of a sudden because he wipes at his eyes and nods, unable to speak.

Scott wants to ask what’s wrong but isn't sure how. He looks back at his mom and hopes she isn’t mad that he’s taking so long to get to the car. She doesn’t beep at him like usual, so he reaches forward and hugs Stiles.

It makes Scott want to sleep for some reason, hugging Stiles. It’s so comforting and nice, like he’s wrapped in a blanket that his mom just took out of the dryer.

It feels like home.

“My mom hugs me when I cry,” Scott explains, smiling gently, “It always makes me feel better.”

There’s a muffled sound and Stiles sinks into Scott a little bit, gripping him back.

“Mine doesn’t,” he whispers, voice cracking.

Before Scott can reply, his mom drives up and tells them both to get in. She says she’ll call Stiles’ dad and drive him home so he doesn't need to worry about catching the bus.

When they get in the car, Scott notices his mom is looking at Stiles’ in a strange way, the same way the teacher was looking at him. Like she knows something Scott doesn’t.

He doesn’t ask about it and jumps in the back seat with Stiles to make sure he isn’t lonely. Stiles has calmed down and he’s clutching the Ninetails card in his small hand, rubbing it mindlessly every so often. Watching him hurts Scott’s chest.

They drop Stiles off and on the way home, his mom starts saying weird things.

“Stiles is having a hard time, honey. It was sweet, what you did today when you hugged him.”

“What’s wrong with Stiles?”

She swallows and pulls into their driveway, shutting the engine off.

“His mom has been staying at the hospital for a while now.”

“Is she sick?”

“Yes,” she murmurs, gently rubbing the top of his head. Scott thinks to himself and then brightens up.

“You can make her better, mommy, you always make people better.”

His mom stares at him and tries to smile but it doesn’t last for very long.

“I don't know if I - " she stops and clears her throat, "You're right, I can try. Like how you tried with Stiles today. You should always do that for people, Scott. Be there, hold onto them, don’t let them give up. You can do that because you're strong and you're my son.”

Scott grins and gets out of the car, slinging his backpack with him.

“You think Stiles can come over soon?”

“Whenever you guys want,” she discloses, reminding him that dinner is in the fridge and to lock the front door behind him. Scott waves as she drives off and runs inside, sneaking by his dad who's snoozing on the couch. He gets to his room and looks at his Pokemon cards again, enthusiastically thinking of ideas for when Stiles can come over.

While he imagines how much fun they're going to have this weekend, he doesn’t know that Stiles is across town, sitting in the hospital waiting room.

With his head in his hands.


	2. You Don't Fool Me

“Dude, scooch over.”

“Nope.”

“What? Move over, Scotty.”

“I think I’m good.”

The eighth graders sitting behind Scott on the school bus grumble sleepily, wanting Stiles to hurry and pick a spot so the lights will go back off. The morning is the worst time to be noisy unless you don't mind getting into a fight before class.

“Ouch- Stiles, stop, what are you-”

“Well, you wouldn’t move!”

“Yeah, ‘cause you-”

Someone kicks at their seat, groggily shouting, and Stiles is about to turn around when Scott pulls him back.

“We’re in seventh grade, Stiles. You’re being a baby.”

“Me? You’re the one who's still mad at me! Just because I did a little prank on your freaking dad.”

“He’s not going to let you come over if you don’t stop, that’s why,” Scott frowns, shoving his earbuds back into his ears. Stiles shockingly doesn’t argue and moves closer, so that he’s pressed into Scott, leaving plenty of empty space on the other side of the seat.

“There’s no room for-”

“There’s always room,” Stiles brushes off, shifting so that he can lay his head onto Scott’s shoulder. He drapes his shoes over their backpacks and yawns, closing his eyes.

Scott is about to tell him to get off until he notices how there are crinkles under Stiles’ eyes and dark spots - lack of sleep spots -  so he says nothing. The bus rumbles and hits a speed bump but Stiles is barely phased, looking as peaceful as if he were asleep on a cloud.

“I wanna listen,” Stiles requests quietly because he knows that Scott hasn’t actually turned his music back on yet.

Scott doesn’t protest, gently putting one of the earbuds into Stiles’ exposed ear and pressing play.

As always, Stiles drifts off for the next ten minutes, making little sounds in his sleep, mouth slightly open, eyelashes fluttering. He doesn’t stir until the bus stops at the school and Scott wakes him. Scott doesn’t complain about the drool Stiles left on his jacket or the way Stiles puts his arm around his shoulder the entire walk to their first class or even how loud Stiles is when it’s so quiet around them.

Because Scott wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

 

At lunch, Stiles flies into the seat in front of Scott, french fries falling out of his mouth, talking one hundred miles a minute. Scott knows he’ll eventually swallow and start over so in the mean time he crams for the History exam next period.

“Where’s your grub?” Stiles asks, once his mouth isn’t full anymore.

“I don’t have time to eat. I have to study.”

“No, no, no, Scotty, you have time. Your mom would _kill_ _me_  - and then she would kill _you_ \- if she found out you weren’t eating.”

“I’m starting to think _you’re_ my mom.”

“Here,” Stiles ignores, giving Scott his apple and mashed potatoes and a sip of the milk carton. Scott takes it, unwillingly - except actually he’s starving and grateful - but doesn’t give Stiles the satisfaction.

“You always end up giving me the apple.”

“Gotta keep you healthy,” Stiles explains matter-of-fact like, finishing the rest of his food in one gulp. Scott looks up through his bangs.

“Or you don’t like sharing your fries, right?”

“I’m offended, Scott, really.”

The bell rings and Stiles throws his tray away, bumping into a kid much bigger than him with an _oof_.

“Whoah, what are you made of -  bricks?” Stiles scoffs, stepping back. The guy looks at him, features sharp and cold.

“Watch the shoes, asswipe,” the other boy glares, blue eyes narrowing. He walks off, followed by a group of athletes and a pretty redhead that doesn't spare them a second glance.

“ _Oh my God_ ,” Stiles mouths, watching Lydia Martin follow the taller boy out of the cafeteria, her curls sweeping behind her. “There goes my dream girl with a class A meat head - _nice_ ,” he groans, joining Scott up at the doorway.

“Sorry, dude,” Scott replies, looking down at the floor as they walk. When they get to History, Stiles shakes his head and shrugs.

“It's all good. The plan to make Lydia fall in love with me is still on. I have time. I just don’t have money or muscles or popularity. . . All minor setbacks."

Scott grins and pats Stiles’ arm, turning around to go into class.

“Get to class, Stiles.”

 

 

The sun hides behind the clouds in the sky, leaving a crisp atmosphere outside. The schoolyard fence is kind of cold, the metal chilling Stiles' hands as he presses his face into it, watching the distant scene unfold.

“Okay, seriously, this is a new low,” Scott mutters next to him, his back against the fence, eyes anywhere but the field.

“He deserves it, trust me.”

On the other side of the field, a blonde eighth grader crosses, going straight for the bleachers, her braided hair swaying in the breeze.

“Why are you doing this again?”

“Because this guy - this Jackson kid - is my _nemesis_.”

“Does _he_ know that?” Scott asks, eyebrows knitting together. Stiles looks at him and shakes his head, staring back across the field.

“Will you please let me enjoy this?”

The blonde is at the bleachers now, turning her head in all directions, searching. She finally goes around to the back and Stiles starts counting down.

“3. . . 2. . . 1-”

_Smack!_

In about ten seconds, the eighth grader is stalking back off, her eyes red to match the red on her palm. From behind the bleachers comes Jackson and another girl with smeared lip gloss and disheveled hair, making what they were caught doing as clear as day.

“I tipped her off, pretty good right?” Stiles brags, licking his bottom lip.

“Couldn’t you just watch desperate housewives or something?”

“You’re not getting this, are you?”

“I guess not,” Scott slumps, slapping his hand against his side, “I don’t get how selling Jackson out to all of his girlfriends helps you in anyway or - helps anybody actually.”

“It’s all part of the big picture, Scott. Soon, it goes around school that he’s a cheating scumbag - which is factual and we both confirmed with our own eyes - and then Lydia finds out and that takes care of that.”

“That doesn’t solve anything.”

“He deserves to be found out. He’s a bad guy, Scott.”

They stare at each other for a minute, Scott’s eyebrows raising optimistically - wanting Stiles to give a better reason but when he doesn’t, he picks his backpack up and walks off, looking back one last time.

“You can’t hurt people like that, Stiles.”

“He’s the one that was-”

“I meant the girls. They shouldn’t have found out like that.”

Stiles kicks some of the grass under his sneaker and puffs his cheeks out.

“They would have gotten hurt anyways. I’m saving them the trouble.”

“It’s not okay,” Scott repeats, “And their pain isn’t worth getting Lydia to notice you.”

He waits but Stiles doesn't debate for once.

“She’ll notice you, Stiles, but not like this. You’re great and she just doesn’t know it yet,” he reminds, watching Stiles visibly brighten up.

The heaviness of the air disperses and Stiles slings his arm around Scott, going on about all the ways he’s going to woo Lydia in their lifetime. It’s embarrassing but at least Stiles is smiling.

 

 

Fall goes by quickly with too much work and not enough sleep. During a nap one afternoon, Scott wakes up to a bang downstairs, sending his heart hammering out of his chest. He rubs his eyes and checks the time on the clock, getting up from the bed. He knows exactly who it is.

He scrambles downstairs and flings the door open, revealing his very intoxicated father, clad in a suit with sweat stains. Straight away, he stumbles to the couch.

“Slept at the office again?” Scott asks, shutting the door.

“Rough night,” his dad answers with a smack of his teeth. “Get me some water?”

Scott brings the glass and some medicine for the headache but his dad waves the pills away. He takes a drink and in no time passes out. No _thank you_. No acknowledgement. Nothing.

Scott puts the glass down and fishes a blanket from upstairs, yanking his dad's shoes off and draping the blanket over his lanky body. He sneaks a pillow under his heavy head and takes the glass back to the kitchen.

Putting the empty glass away sends a striking pain through Scott's head. To see his father that way, it never fails to make him upset. But his mom’s a nurse, a nurturer, a guardian. He has to watch over his dad while she’s at work. He has to take care of him.

It’s the first time he’s seen his dad in two weeks. This isn’t unusual anymore, his dad dropping by whenever is convenient for him. Scott can feel the pit of his stomach dropping until he wants to gag.

Suppressing the feeling, he returns to studying - distracting himself from overthinking. Or thinking about it at all.

A few hours later, when he’s about to lay his head down on the desk for a quick rest, he gets a skype call from Stiles.

“Yo,” Stiles greets, leaning up to the screen. Scott slowly smiles. 

“Why are you wearing those? Where did you even - I shouldn't be surprised, forget I asked.”

“Oh yeah, these,” Stiles blushes, removing the elf ears on his real ears, “MMO stuff - It’s well - you know. I was playing a game with some online friends.”

“Sure you don't mean _hobbits_?”

“You’re just jealous that I'm the Legolas of online gaming.”

“You’re definitely not a Legolas.”

“Hey! I could be!”

Scott snorts and drifts his gaze away from the screen for a minute when he hears rustling downstairs. After a couple seconds of baited breath, there's no more noise. He looks back at the screen, relieved that his dad didn't get up.

It’s a mistake because Stiles picks up on the change in mood instantly.

“What’s up with you? Something happen?”

“No,” Scott answers quickly, lamely knocking his pencils off of his desk. Nervously, he sweeps his palms over the carpet to find them, hearing keyboard tapping from Stiles' end. When Scott comes back up from the floor, he sees blue, underlined text.

“What’s the link for?”

“Comic convention. We’re going in a few weekends. My dad said he would pay for us.”

“What? No, don’t let him do that! I can’t pay back!”

"Don’t worry about it. We’re going, Scott, it’s been decided.”

“By who exactly? The great _elf Stiles_?”

“Um, obviously? Anyways, back to whatever is up with you-”

“I gotta go,” Scott lies, not wanting to go into that conversation. “I’m gonna er - make my mom dinner before she gets home.”

“First of all, you’ve never touched a stove, second-”

“Bye, Stiles.”

He clicks the exit button and takes a deep breath.

The door downstairs opens so he rushes to the kitchen to find his mom unpacking groceries. She gives him a quick kiss, saying she got off her shift early. When he grabs the rest of the food out of the car, he comes back to see the scowl painted on her face.

“I need to get a new lock,” she mutters, picking up the empty bottle of jack on the floor by Scott’s dad.

Scott doesn’t tell her that it's his fault. That Scott's the one who let him in, doesn’t let her know that he secretly wants to. That sometimes he wishes he would open the door and his dad would ruffle his hair or tell him _I miss you_ or at least call him _son_. Anything.

It hurt so much.

He pretends it doesn’t though because he doesn’t want worry his mom.

And he doesn’t want to worry Stiles.

 

 

After some more studying and gaming, the clock reads midnight and it's Scott's cue to turn his computer off. He slips into the cool sheets of his bed, mind wandering, body aching from stress.

His mom has been working a lot more, picking up extra shifts and his dad has barely been around. Not that he missed his presence much, his dad's always a ghost. Drifting in and out of being around, in and out of consciousness. Half the time he wasn’t even sober. Good riddance.

Scott doesn’t need that guy around. His dad lies all the time, takes his mom’s money, yells at everyone. Who cares about him being there? It isn’t a big deal.

Scott turns over and shuts his eyes, squeezing the blanket.

“I don’t care,” he whispers to himself, “I don’t need him. I don’t care.”

His voice starts to get raspy but he stops when the window opens and a shadow tumbles into the room. It's such a shock that Scott jerks his head up and stumbles out of the bed, reaching for his baseball bat underneath it.

The shadow stands and Scott swings out at it without a second thought - because like hell anyone is gonna break into _his_ house and hurt _his_ mom - but a familiar squeak stops his swing short.

“Stiles?!”

Stiles has his arms up over his own head and he’s gaping in horror, dumbstruck.

“What are you _doing_?!”

“You’re breaking into _my room_ and want to know what _I’m doing_?!”

“It wasn’t that hard,” Stiles answers, diverting the conversation, "To break in, I mean."

“This is the second floor, dude!”

“So? Nothing can keep us apart, right?" he jokes, warily watching the bat. 

Scott raises an eyebrow, loosening his grip on the bat. Stiles exhales and stretches his limbs. 

“Look, I climbed a tree, happy? Anyways, we have more important things to talk about.”

He then paces back and forth, biting at his thumb, eyes glued to the floor. Scott rubs the long hair from his sticky forehead and rolls the bat under the bed again.

“You could have warned me.”

“How was I supposed to know you were trying out for little league all of a sudden?”

“It’s for intruders.”

“That’s - Okay,” Stiles gulps, out of options for argument.

Scott sits on the bed, breathing in and out to let the adrenaline calm through his body. The sound of Stiles’ footsteps over the carpet is a nice white noise at least. They’re both silent for a while, uncharacteristically, because Stiles’ is still thinking to himself. Scott is about to fall asleep when Stiles speaks up again.

“So there’s this party-”

“A party that includes Lydia?” Scott mutters, sleep induced.

“Huh?”

“This is about Lydia,” he states, “The party and the climbing into my room because you couldn’t sleep until you got me in on the plan - a plan that’s going to get us both in trouble, right? Stop me at anytime,” he adds, voice hopeful.

“Nope - you’re totally - that’s uh - good,” Stiles says, sliding next to Scott on his bed and pulling his knee up. “But we’ll only get in trouble if we get caught.”

“I’m tired. It’s midnight and I have another test tomorrow.”

“Well, be less tired! We need to go to this party so I can have a shot with that beautiful strawberry blonde, green eyed goddess, okay? Get that?”

“No, I don’t,” Scott groans, pulling the sheets up over his head in an effort to drown Stiles out. Maybe he’ll go away if Scott pretends to sleep.

“You can’t ignore me, Scott!”

“I can try.”

“Okay, hear me out - the party is tomorrow night and everyone is gonna be there! We can’t be losers for the rest of our lives!”

“I don’t think you’re a loser,” Scott blurts mindlessly, yawning into the crook of his elbow.

Stiles doesn’t respond to that. A minute passes and Scott is wondering what the holdup is and why Stiles hasn’t dragged him out of bed by now or rambled off about this ‘win over Lydia’ plan of his.

“Were you really going to whack my head off with that bat, Scott?”

Not expecting that, Scott snorts against the thin sheet over his head and doesn’t bother answering.

The sheet disappears and cool air hits Scott’s face but before he can protest the sheet is back and Stiles is laying next to him. It’s warmer than before and comforting - being this close  together - with Stiles’ cheek pressed into Scott’s shoulder.

They don’t look at each other but Scott can feel Stiles’ breath and he swears he hears his heartbeat too. It’s probably his imagination.

“Will you just tell me the plan already?” Scott asks finally, voice trapped within the confinement of the covers. It’s dark so he can’t see Stiles’ expression but at least that means Stiles can’t see his own. He knows he must look pathetically loyal right now.

“Remember when we made blanket forts as a kid, Scotty?” Stiles breaks out, voice also unnecessarily quiet. Scott blinks and stares at the dark cloth over them.

“Yeah, I remember.”

“And I always scared you because you were so gullible and easy to fool and-”

“Okay, I get it, yeah.”

“Well, you don’t fool me,” Stiles sighs. Scott is quiet, trying to take that in.

_You don’t fool me._

Even over skype, with just one look, one flicker of his gaze, Stiles can figure out Scott’s hiding something.

Stiles wiggles around until he can relax and continues.

“If someone broke into my house, my dad would be there - with his gun - to protect me. I wouldn’t have to worry about grabbing a bat from under my bed, you know.”

Scott swallows instinctively and his eyes close too, like that will shut out what Stiles is about to say.

“But you don’t have that,” Stiles continues, trailing off, “You don't have someone to protect you from the bad guys.”

He then turns his head just a centimeter so Scott knows he’s looking at him, even if he can’t actually see. Scott realizes the heartbeat he heard earlier was actually his own and doesn’t think he’s breathing when Stiles whispers into his neck.

“So, I’ll be there.”

This feels invasive almost, like Stiles is looking into a part of Scott that he doesn’t want anybody to see. One second Stiles is going on about crashing a middle school party and the next he’s talking like a grown up. It’s confusing and weird but somehow - still perfect.

Scott remembers - not even three years ago - they were in this same place.

In this safe space, in Scott’s room, where he promised Stiles he wasn’t going anywhere. That they would stick together forever. It seems so long ago now.

Scott silently swore that he would help fill the emptiness in Stiles - the gap that formed after he lost his mom. And now Stiles is promising the same, to help heal the scars and the pain that Scott's father is leaving behind.

 _We’re just kids_ , Scott thinks sadly, peering to the side at Stiles who he could faintly see now that his eyes have adjusted. _We don’t deserve this_.

Stiles seems to understand and conveys his own words back.

_But we deserve each other._

“I thought you wanted to talk about Lydia,” Scott laughs, an effort to get the topic away from himself. A way to somber the cry that's about to burst out of him. 

“Oh yeah, I’m completely whipped and could write an entire essay about her,” Stiles admits, waving a hand up, hitting the blanket. The hand stays up momentarily before he drops it back onto his stomach and then his eyes find Scott again and he says, “but you know there’s someone I like just a tiny bit more.”

 

 

Scott doesn’t expect it when he gets to school that week. He doesn’t expect to find Stiles in the boys bathroom with a bloody nose and a shiner under his eye.

The blood in Scott’s body goes about ten degrees hotter when he goes up to Stiles - watching him jolt, alert and paranoid. Once he realizes it's just Scott, he goes back to cleaning the blood off his face wordlessly. 

It burns all doubts about what happened to the ground.

“Where is he?” Scott asks - practically _growls_.

Timid, passive, kind-hearted Scott and he’s _seething_ with aggression. Stiles must have a lie at the tip of his tongue but he doesn’t bother covering up what Scott already knows and looks back into the mirror.

“It’s not that bad,” Stiles comforts, rubbing at his nostril with a wet paper towel.

“When we went to the field that day,” Scott starts, inhaling so he doesn’t yell, “When you told that girl where to find Jackson. Was he already messing with you then? Tell the truth.”

Scott's not like this, never has he been the one to grow hostile out of the two. He's always solving problems peacefully, always ready to be stepped on so he doesn't have to step on anyone else.

He's not thinking that way at all right now.

“Scott, I said I’m okay -”

“This,” he snaps, thumb going up to graze the bruise under Stiles’ eye, “Is _not_ okay.”

“I’m handling it,” Stiles retorts, dabbing clean tissue at the area now.

“The plan was never about Lydia, was it? You were being bullied,” Scott glares, eyes tracing every mark on Stiles’ face. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was handling it on my own.”

“You’re _not_ on your own!” Scott shouts by accident. When he does, Stiles tenses up and meets his eyes. There’s a moment of discomfort and Stiles searches for something in Scott but whether he finds it or not Scott doesn’t know. He’s already ran out of the bathroom by then.

He finds Jackson out on the track, running by himself.

It’s all on impulse from there.

Climbing over the fence, running across the greenery, shoving Jackson backwards, shouting at him. It's a flurry of strong words and blinding anger. 

Jackson is surprised but responds to the attack with a strong punch to Scott's stomach. It's the first time Scott's felt a real punch. His vision goes hazy and he coughs, his stomach convulsing.

When he regains balance, his emotions unravel and he ignores logic - the clear fact that Jackson is much sturdier - and throws a fist square to his jaw. It feels pretty good, to show someone they're not so tough after all. Too bad his knuckles give under the impact afterwards, the bones pretty much crunching.

Jackson's head whips to the side but he's barely phased and tackles Scott, throwing much better hits all over his face. His punches are never ending and Scott tries to get out from under the pin but he's not strong enough. A whistle blows and the PE teacher is untangling the boys, pulling them apart.

“I don’t know what this is about but you boys better head to the office, _now_.”

Jackson looks about ready to rip Scott a new one but when the teacher let's go of his shirt, he storms off the field. The two of them walk silently to the office, both still heaving and shooting each other death glares the whole way.

When Scott is done with the principal, he comes back out to the waiting room to find Jackson, calm and collected. _Smug_.

“Have fun in detention, McCall. And how about letting your loser friend fight for himself next time?”

“The only loser I see is standing in my way,” Scott answers, anger not quite gone. When Jackson steps aside, bumping his shoulder hardly with Scott’s, they make eye contact and Scott steps into the hallway. Stiles is waiting there.

“Put a leash on your friend,” Jackson advises, turning on his heel in the opposite direction, going between the two. As he disappears, Stiles turns to Scott, studying the damage Jackson left.

“I told you that your mom is going to kill me someday, right?” Stiles tries to laugh, “Should we go pick our caskets out together?”

“Sorry,” Scott breathes out, dipping his head and scratching the back of his neck. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“It’s called being an overprotective friend,” Stiles chuckles, “And I think I can forgive you. You left a pretty good mark on his ugly mug.”

“Don’t remind me,” Scott murmurs, feeling more dejected by the second. He blew up. Rage came over him. He didn’t like it. It made him feel like his dad.

It was the worst kind of feeling.

“Oh, I’m going to remind you. You’re a bad ass now and by association - I’m a bad ass,” Stiles decides, elbowing him lightly in the stomach for good measure. “And hey - our black eyes match. Could've been worse, huh?”

Wishing he didn’t find that funny - but he does - Scott eventually cracks and smiles, going with Stiles down the hall.

“You are so lame, dude.”

“Says the guy who defended this lame dude’s honor with his life.”

Scott laughs, an actual laugh that’s been hidden deep for a while now. Stiles seems satisfied with it and laughs too.

“Yeah - well I am stuck with you forever so I might as well make sure you don’t die.”

“That’s my Scotty.”


	3. The Fox and The Hound

It’s a Saturday morning when the doorbell rings about ten times in a row, sending a wave of frustration through Scott. He almost trips down the stairs on his way to open the door and isn't surprised to see Stiles.

He _is_ stunned however when Stiles bolts away, scurrying behind a tree in the front yard, pupils turning into dots. Confused, Scott looks down and discovers the cause. With a laugh, he squats to pet the tiny dog at his feet, picking her up, and bursting into laughter when Stiles narrows his eyes - as if the dog is an actual threat to either of them.

“What the hell is that?”

“My new dog,” Scott laughs, tickling the pup behind it’s silky ears. “Roxy.”

“Did you conveniently forget to mention her?”

“You come to my house unannounced all the time, Stiles, it’s not my fault. Besides, I didn’t know you were such a scaredy cat.”

“I’m not! It’s just that dogs are - you don’t know what they’re going to do!”

“Will you just get in here?”

Stiles cautiously moves closer to the front door, eyes never leaving the dog whose tail is wagging, thumping against Scott’s arm. As soon as he’s near the door, he presses himself to the house, as far from Scott and the dog as he can before sliding inside. In a flash, Scott shoves the dog up to him and Stiles yells, darting up the stairs, leaving Scott howling with laughter.

“I’m so holding this against you!”

“I hate you!”

Scott shuts the door and lets Roxy down, watching her scurry straight upstairs after Stiles. Her feet pitter patter against the carpet and as the sound disappears, Stiles shouts and breaks the silence from the second floor.

“Was that squeal yours or my dog's?” Scott teases, coming into the bedroom, amused at the sight before him.

Stiles is on Scott’s bed, a pillow out as a shield and Roxy is hopping up and down on the floor, desperately trying to get to him. She whines because she's barely able to reach the bed but keeps trying anyways. It's too cute.

“Here you go, girl, get him,” Scott encourages, picking the pup up and putting her right in front of Stiles. She races forward, straight into his lap, and he freezes up at the sudden weight, jaw slack.

“Get it away, Scott!”

“She’s harmless.”

“Except for the fangs and claws - right?!”

Scott rolls his eyes and sits next to Stiles, having a mini tug-of-war with him to get the pillow so he can toss it out of reach. The pillow plops down on the floor and he takes Stiles’ hand, glancing at him curiously.

“Your favorite movie is Fox and the Hound, dude. I thought you loved dogs.”

“What? Liking dogs has nothing to do with why that's my-”

“She’s not going to bite you.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Trust me.”

“It’s not _you_ that I don’t trust - it’s that little vicious animal.”

“Then she’ll bite us both,” Scott assures, dragging Stiles' hand to hover Roxy's back before pressing it down, resting their joined hands on top of it. Her head jerks up, bright eyes gleaming, and Stiles stiffens immediately.

The dog is pawing at Stiles' stomach, tail flopping around in her excitement. He side-eyes Scott helplessly and Roxy makes a cute sound, yipping.

“She likes when you scratch here,” Scott distracts, leading Stiles’ hand to the underside of the dog’s face, at the soft part of her neck.

"Oh, okay, right at her teeth - yeah, sure, this is-"

Roxy turns her head suddenly and is about to clamp her jaw on Stiles' hand but Scott moves it out of the way, seeing the fright wash over him.

"You said she wouldn't-"

"She's a puppy, she gnaws on stuff. Watch."

Scott doesn't let go of Stiles' hand, because honestly he just doesn't want to. He likes knowing that Stiles is trusting him and letting him lead the way, letting him show that he's got him. So, with his other hand, Scott puts it out to Roxy and she chews on it happily, like her life depends on it.

"It doesn't hurt or anything. She couldn't hurt me if she wanted to, her muscles aren't that strong."

"Yeah, for now," Stiles mumbles, curling his fingers into Scott's instinctively.  

Scott takes his hand away from Roxy and uses the one occupied by Stiles' to go for her neck again. She makes another noise in her chest and tries to climb higher on Stiles' knee, slipping around. 

When Stiles’ palm brushes the fur there, he relaxes and Scott lets go of his hand, sitting back. It’s kind of funny to watch Stiles, who is much bigger than Roxy, pet her so anxiously - as if he thinks she’s going to eat his face off the second he stops.

The puppy nuzzles against his stomach, enjoying the massage, her tiny eyelids closing as she curls into a ball on his legs.

“Hm, well,” Stiles finally speaks, clearing his throat, not having anything else to add, avoiding the way Scott is staring.

“See? I was right.”

“Yeah,” Stiles snorts, “First time for everything, I guess.”

“Oh, shut up.”

 

It’s already Spring time, meaning final exams and projects on top of a pile of end of the year activities to do before the summer comes. When Scott’s mom comes in his room that night to give him money for a yearbook, he takes it reluctantly. He doesn’t care about having a yearbook or taking a class photo or doing any of that really.

“Hey, don’t have regrets, don’t miss out on life,” his mom lectures, aware of his silent protest. She then says some other things and touches his face, asking if he’s okay. He nods hazily, wanting to just go to bed already. Her voice is almost far away but he’s barely able to listen and when she’s gone, he lies down.

The school year is almost over, meaning in less than a couple months, Scott and Stiles would be high school freshman. It keeps Scott awake at night sometimes. Imagining growing up and growing apart, leading lives away from each other.

These days are never ending for Scott, the time he has with Stiles now. What if going to high school changes that?

What if they don’t see each other much next year? Everything changes in high school, doesn’t it? Maybe both of them will meet new people or devote time to doing other things that don’t include each other. It’s a scary thought.

Scott is so sleepy but he can’t get comfortable and his body can't cool down and he’s sweating through his shirt. Moving around only make it worse and more than once he contemplates waking his mom up to tell her the air condition is broken.

Time on the alarm clock flies by, stressing him out even more. He tosses and turns, wishing he could calm down and rest but his body doesn’t let him.

Outside, the birds are waking up and the sun is rising, sending light into his room. The morning came so fast, he thinks it's unreal. He shuts his eyes, so dizzy and drained from lack of sleep, unable to move.

Behind his eyelids are lights and shadows that blur and blend into each other. Soon colors spark and become vivid and he sees himself with Stiles, arguing or fighting, ignoring each other, turning their backs. He watches himself go to high school, losing Stiles, becoming lonelier and lonelier as days go by. There's tears and blood stains and pain and an awful mixtures of sights and scents he can't pick out but it's mortifying.  

It’s like getting punched in the gut when he finally wakes up, in the middle of what might as well be a heatwave circling the room. There's a scream hidden in the back of his throat but it doesn’t come out and Scott is afraid and paranoid, tingling from the nightmares.

Before he can completely wind down, someone barges into his room.

“Scott?! You okay?!” Stiles shouts, dropping his backpack on the floor and rushing to Scott’s side.

Scott blinks at him, still in shock over his bad dreams.

“You missed school!” Stiles bursts, grabbing Scott’s desk before he falls over in his hysteria.

“Wait - what? I missed school?”

“Yeah!” Stiles emphasizes, his arms out wide. “It’s like three o’clock, Scott. Why are you still in bed?”

“Where’s my mom?” Scott mutters, rubbing at his aching head, his throat dry as sand.

“Your voice sounds off,” Stiles observes, leaning into Scott’s personal space, “Are you sick?”

“How should I know?” Scott sighs, still tired even though apparently he’s been sleeping all day. At the same time his head is back on the pillow, Stiles’ hand flies to his forehead but instinctively retracts, his face screwing up.

“You’re burning up.”

Scott grabs his flip phone from his desk and calls his mom in a daze. When one of the RN's pick up, he asks for Melissa and starts talking as soon as she’s on the line.

“Mom, I’m so sorry, I missed school. I don’t know why I didn’t wake up or maybe I fell back asleep but - I’m not sure what-”

“Scott, calm down,” Melissa soothes, still in nurse mode, “You had a fever last night, before bed, remember? I figured you wouldn’t go to school today. You should rest before it gets worse.”

“What? I have a fever?”

“Oh, honey,” Melissa murmurs. She sounds almost sad. “You need to start taking care of yourself. You’re so worried about everybody else that you can’t even tell you’re not feeling well. I’ll call the school so lay back down. Get something to eat and drink too, got it?”

Scott touches his face and feels how hot it is. He nods but realizes his mom can’t see him so he says, “Okay. Thanks, mom.”

“No problem, sweetheart. I’ll see you tonight.”

They hang up and Scott collapses back down into his pillow, almost forgetting he’s not alone.

“How do you not notice that you’re sick, Scott?” Stiles asks, glaring. “That’s a new oblivious - even for you.”

“I don’t know,” Scott answers, hugging his pillow tightly. “I wasn’t paying attention, I guess.”

“ _You weren’t paying atten_ -” Stiles swallows the words and begins a new set, “Your mom is right. Start looking after yourself.”

“I’m trying.”

“Okay, sure, whatever you say.”

It sounds so harsh that Scott turns over and squints up at Stiles who's eyes are at the window.

“Stiles? Why are you so mad?”

“Because you’re so - freaking - ugh - you just-”

He doesn't finish.

It’s awkwardly tense and quiet, Scott waiting and Stiles avoiding eye contact. After another long minute, Stiles decides to go to the door so Scott sits up apprehensively, worried and helpless.

He watches Stiles leave the room and at first Scott thinks he left for good - not even bothering to take his backpack with him - but it’s not too long that he comes back with a bowl of soup and a cup of ice water.

A tinge of guilt rises in Scott’s stomach as Stiles silently hands over the food, clearly still angry. Scott takes it and eats the soup, placing the empty container on the desk when it's all down while Stiles is boring holes into the floor with his eyes, making it a point not to look at Scott. The second Scott finishes drinking the water, he can see the tension in Stiles’ limbs lessen.

“I’m really sorry, Stiles.”

“You’re actually saying that to me, right now?” Stiles scoffs, linking his fingers together, tapping his foot over and over. Scott watches the subtle movements and he crosses his legs and arms, leaning forward.

“I’m serious.”

Scott understands why this is such a big deal. He knows that being sick and not noticing and having a fever and not caring - are a huge deal for Stiles. Scott can’t get sick. He can’t go to the ER. He can’t have a fever. He can’t be in the hospital. He can't miss school. _He can't get sick_. 

He can’t leave Stiles.

“No, it’s not your fault,” Stiles finally breaks out, untangling his fingers, eyes on the ceiling, “Don’t do that. I’m the one who’s sorry.”

He falls backwards, turning his head, corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “But that doesn’t mean you’re off the hook for passing out like that. You better get better.”

“Better get better?” Scott grins. Stiles makes a sound of annoyance.

“You know what I mean. Don’t fight me on this.”

The sun outside is starting to set, creating a serene orange in the room. It’s enough for Scott to want to go back to sleep. If that’s even possible. He gets back under the covers, careful not to bump Stiles’ with his legs, and settles.

“Don’t worry, I won’t,” Scott says, “You’re actually apologizing for once so I don’t wanna ruin it.”

When Stiles cranes his neck to halfheartedly grimace at him, Scott laughs.

“First time for everything, huh, Stiles?”

“Oh, shut up.”

 

In Scott’s preschool years, his dad declared that he would build a tree house for Scott. And shockingly - he did. It’s probably the only gift his dad ever gave him - even if it's purpose was more about proving a point to Melissa that _a man is the one who builds things in this house_  - it was still a nice hideout for Scott and Stiles on the weekends.

“Aren’t we getting too old for this?” Scott asks, following Stiles up the rope ladder, wincing at the frayed hay scratching his skin up.

“Don’t ever say that to me again,” Stiles shoots at him once he’s climbed the top, rolling into the tree house. He reaches out to pull Scott inside too. “ _Ever_.”

There are dusty books laying around and old toys that neither of them have bothered to take to the trash yet. At least it was somehow staying free from cobwebs and roaches.

“We’re thirteen years old, Scott. Besides, age shouldn’t stop us from doing whatever the hell we want.”

“Like playing baseball in the street and accidentally smashing Miss Denise's’ window?” Scott questions, wiping his hands off against his jacket.

“It was one time!”

They pull out an old board game and throw the dice around, making up their own rules because they forgot how to play and lost the handbook. The wooden walls around them are solid, letting hardly any light in, and there’s not a whole lot of room to move around. Neither of them can stand up anymore without bumping their head on the roof.

But still, it feels like less of a jail cell than most places. Because here is where the two have spent most of their freedom. Most of the carefree days. 

On their fourth game - Stiles is still shouting because he never runs out of energy - it's then that Scott accidentally brings up what’s been on his mind.

“Are you ready to go to high school?”

Stiles is quiet and throws the dice out, both of them keeping their eyes on it until it lands on it’s side, in the middle of six and one.

“I guess so - maybe - not really?”

It’s music to Scott’s ears - a breath of fresh air - the best thing Stiles could have said. He’s worried too. He’s not all that prepared either.

“I mean, who knows,” Stiles shrugs, “It’s not gonna be much different, really.”

“Yeah, it will,” Scott disagrees, “It’s gonna be a whole new world - a whole new place we never knew.”

“Are you quoting Aladdin?” Stiles laughs, chucking the dice at Scott's chest.

Scott laughs too and they don’t really know why they find it so funny but they’re both just kind of giggling and slowly the laughter dies out of them and Stiles is pushing the dice back and forth, uninterested in the game, and Scott is leaned back on his palms, watching a bird fly up to the makeshift window of the tree house.

“Maybe it’s good - change for the better,” Scott offers, wanting to convince himself as much as Stiles. It doesn’t show through in his tone. He's afraid of admitting all these fears about what's in store for them.

Maybe if he says something hopeful out loud, it will come true. 

Stiles flicks the dice and doesn't look up, but his voice is stern.

“Or it’s not. Probably  - most definitely not. Nothing has to change.”

The conversation drops and they continue with the game as if it didn’t happen. But Scott notices the little twitch in Stiles’ fingers as he tries to keep control of himself, probably over thinking the future just like Scott now.

It isn’t until the sun has set and they’re heading back down the rope to the house that Scott hears Stiles mumbling to himself from behind, with his head low and his hands fisted in his pockets.

“Nothing has to change.”

 

The crowd of eighth graders swarm around Scott, making his mind boggle and twirl. He wanders around, letting random people sign his yearbook, kids he’s barely even interacted with in the last three years. To be polite, he signs there’s back anyways, and then goes forward through the sea of people, head spinning in all directions.

Bumping into people becomes tiring, so he steps out of the crowd and heads back inside the school, crossing the hallways, shoes squeaking up and down the slick floors. There's only a few other kids in the building and all the teachers are monitoring outside.

It's so empty.

Scott searches the first floor and then runs upstairs, to the eighth grade hall. It’s at the end, at the last door, where his homeroom is. Inside, is where Stiles is.

The classroom is deserted and Stiles is under one of the desks, looking like some kind of mechanic, a marker cap in his mouth.

“What are you doing up here, man?”

He can hear scribbling and squeaking, the sound of marker on wood and Scott shifts his jaw.

“Almost done, be with you in a sec," Stiles responds, the marker cap between his teeth.

Scott crosses the space separating them and puts his yearbook down on the desk next to Stiles, which is Scott's desk. Or  _was_ Scott's desk.

“Why are you vandalizing your own desk? School’s out. We’re done. You’ll never see it again.”

“It’s my legacy,” Stiles convinces, spitting the cap out so he can speak properly. “And it’s awesome.”

Scott kneels down, almost afraid to look at whatever Stiles has done now. When his eyes zone in on the doodle, he puts his palm against his forehead and groans.

“Not again.”

“Huh? Not again? Wait, did I draw this already?”

“Vividly drew it. Remember that assignment you turned in at the start of the year? Yeah, you pretty much drew this diagram on there.”

Stiles is thoughtful and lowers the marker from the desk, leaning his head back so that it’s resting on the cold floor.

“Oh.”

“ _Dude_.”

“Hey, at least I’ll be remembered by something.”

“This is how you want to be remembered? The kid that drew an overly detailed diagram of a dick?”

“Actually, it's a circumcision - but close enough.”

They’re silent for a minute and then Stiles rolls himself out from under the desk, standing up and brushing his cargo pants off.

“Hey, don’t make fun of my legacy. If I ever come back, I'll see this picture and hopefully nothing will be different-" Stiles pauses and then quickly adds, "I'll still be my awesome self."

For some reason, hearing that brings a weird sensation to Scott's chest, like it's tightening and deflating at the same time.

“You missed the yearbook signing for this?”

“Social anxiety, Scott,” Stiles reminds, pointing at himself, “Trust me, I was better off here.”

“Well, you’re lucky I wasn't because I got Lydia’s signature-”

“What?!”

Scott covers his ears and then points to his yearbook on the desk. Stiles is off the floor and flinging it open, flipping through the pages quickly. 

“I hate my life,” Stiles sighs, hand roaming the page where Lydia Martin’s pretty writing occupies. It's taking up little space in the corner but there's a little heart and that crushes Stiles.

“No more skipping out on stuff -” Scott scolds, tearing the sheet out of his yearbook, giving it to Stiles. He doesn't need all those phone numbers anyways and scribbles of _have a great summer_  - from people he'll never call.

“I wonder how creepy this is from a 1-10," Stiles ponders, taking the paper.

“It’s way off the scale at this point.”

“Thanks for the boost of confidence.”

They leave the classroom and descend the stairs, already going into their plans for the summer. It's weird. Scott was so scared of today, dreading it for a week straight, the last day of middle school. But he's talking to Stiles like it's not.

Like tomorrow they'll both wake up and hop on the bus and go to homeroom and Stiles will be a troublemaker and Scott will try to stop him but end up in detention anyways and the next day they do it again.

As soon as they get to the exit, Scott stops, searching his pockets. He looks down and then checks his backpack.

“Crap, I think I dropped my keys. Be right back."

"Be right here," Stiles drawls, leaning back into the door patiently.

Scott runs back upstairs to the homeroom, jogging until he gets to his and Stiles’ desks, and drops to his knees so he can look on the floor. The keys glimmer on the white tile so he snatches them up, pocketing them in relief. He starts to push himself to stand again until his gaze lingers on the underside of the wood of his own desk.

He catches a glimpse of something. Crawling closer, he tilts his head and touches the black marker doodle left there.

 

_If I ever come back, I'll see this picture and hopefully nothing will be different._

 

It’s a fox and a hound.

 

There's a lump in Scott's throat and he hops up, running at top speed down to meet Stiles again. His best friend is looking bored but moves off the door when Scott appears. 

"Whoa, slow down there, buddy. You might get suspended for running in the halls," Stiles jokes, breath catching in his throat when Scott flies forward and hugs him.

It's been forever since they've hugged, at least like this. 

"Scott?" Stiles wonders, patting his back to return the gesture, completely confused. 

"I don't really care about middle school," Scott admits, "Or high school or any of that. They're just places."

"Okay - ?" 

"The walls are different but it doesn't mean what's inside will change."

"Aaaand - I"m lost."

Scott doesn't bother explaining, he just hugs Stiles a little tighter, glad that Stiles hugs him back. When they pull apart, Scott throws his arm over Stiles' shoulder and they step out of the school, maybe for the last time. 

 _It's not scary to move on and grow up,_ Scott thinks when they're outside.

 

_Change isn't so bad._

 

_Because what's most important will always stick with you._

 


	4. Seeing Stars

Scott has a hard time waking up and getting ready at five in the morning, considering it’s the second week of the summer and he finally started getting used to sleeping in. Not so much today. His alarm buzzes him straight out of a dream and into the cold reality of the morning. 

What makes it worse is that his room is a mess so he can barely stand up much less find everything he needs to pack. If only he would have done it the night before like his mom suggested. But, nope, he has to make his own life more difficult and now he's running around, throwing a bunch of clothes - he isn't sure if it's the clean or dirty laundry pile but oh well - into his bag for the trip today.

His mom is yelling from downstairs to hurry up and that the Sheriff would be there in about ten minutes. Scott keeps stuffing a bunch of random clothes into his bag, along with a toothbrush and deodorant - somehow he got all the necessities down - scurrying under his bed to grab a few more things.

The door opens and his mom is there, hand on her hip, about to tell him something but she’s cut off when Stiles flies in front of her. Her face shows that’s what she was going to tell him and reminds Scott that she packed him a breakfast downstairs. He gives her a swift kiss and hug before she goes off to work, then gets back to packing.

“Come on, Scott,” Stiles urges, jittery, “And yes, I got into my dad’s coffee.”

Scott would smile if he wasn’t so intent on finishing up with his bag, head hurting from an _I barely slept last night_ headache.

“Ah - crap. I can’t find my socks,” he groans, making a breathy noise from his nostrils, searching under his bed again.

Stiles doesn’t waste a second opening the third drawer on Scott’s dresser, throwing the socks his way and going to the door.

“That all? We done here? We're gonna miss the bus.”

“That’s pretty disturbing,” Scott insists slowly, jerking his bag up over his shoulder.

The Sheriff is in the car outside and he drops the two off at a church parking lot, a place with about thirty other kids. Stiles gives his dad a hug and Scott waves when the Sheriff drives off, right after he lectures them on behaving themselves.

As soon as the car is around the corner, a large, metallic bus pulls up and all the kids standing around rush on. Scott and Stiles make sure to find seats next to each other once they put their luggage in the back, and chatter enthusiastically since Scott's mind caught up to his body - fully awake now. 

“It’s like a ghost town on this thing. I mean, come on, we’re going to summer camp. Shouldn’t we be singing or something?” Stiles complains, eyeballing the ceiling. 

“It’s always like that on buses in the morning. People are tired," Scott answers, putting his knees up on the seat in front of him, "Besides, not everyone is as ecstatic as you to be here. It's not the coolest way to start your Freshman year of high school with _I went to camp over the summer_.”

Stiles slumps a little but then straightens back up and dumps a bag of skittles into his hand, then some into Scott’s.

“I know the real reason why they're all so drowsy. They need more sugar.”

“Or you could use less?”

Stiles wonders about that while eating an entire handful of skittles at once. He glances at Scott, chewing and thinking about it more than he needs to, something Scott learned he does a long time ago.

“Maybe it’s ‘cause I have you to talk to in the morning so I usually wake up excited. We don’t all have a Scott to look forward to, I guess.” He pauses and swallows. “Or it’s the ADHD. That might be it.”

“It’s me,” Scott decides, suddenly all too aware of how close they’re sitting. His ears grow hot at the tips and Stiles has his head turned so he’s looking at him, doe eyed.

With no other way to play off his embarrassment, Scott hurries and grabs a few skittles, spending the next ten minutes seeing who can toss and catch the most in their mouth.

 

After a few hours, the bus drops the kids off at a pretty forested area draped in sunshine and greenery so bright it almost looked photo-shopped in. There's a shimmering lake and a few cabins hidden under the canopy of vines. It's the only thing Scott's ever seen look like the brochure. 

Everything is pretty awesome at first. They meet the camp counselors, eat some grub - that isn't middle school awful cafeteria food - and play games for a bit. The other kids are nice too, easy to get along with. Scott's liking it a lot.

It’s sun down when the campers put their stuff in the cabins, preparing for the next few hours of night activities. Stiles takes the bunk above Scott’s, crashing from the sugar and coffee high, and Scott doesn't even unpack, he just sits down on his own bed to take in the scent of the dust and wood. 

He doesn't know why but he really likes that scent. The same way he likes how this place already has a welcoming atmosphere - friendly and safe. Hopefully high school will be the same.

The room is buzzing for about an hour but soon clears out once everyone is finished unpacking their stuff so they can go on the night hike. Scott wants to go but he decides to stay with Stiles who isn't waking up anytime soon.

He whips out the gameboy he stashed this morning - even though the field trip requested not to bring electronics - and gets comfortable.

Scott doesn’t bother keeping the volume low, Stiles can sleep through an earthquake when he has a sugar crash, and is in the zone of his game until a sound breaks his concentration.

There’s a tap on the window.

At first Scott thinks it’s a bird or something until he looks up and sees how dark it's gotten outside. He waits and waits but after a dull silence, continues the game.

Then there’s another tap. It’s a little louder this time, almost a scratch or a scrape, like something is trying to get through the glass.

“Stiles,” Scott calls automatically in a hushed voice, hoping not to spook whatever animal is outside the cabin. “Wake up “

Stiles keeps snoring, oblivious to reality, so Scott sits up, eyes locked on the cabin door when it starts to vibrate. There’s another scratchy sound on the wood.

Scott sweeps a hard look over the room for a blunt object but doesn’t see anything that could prove useful against a freaking bear or wolf. His body tingles up and he’s standing, hand reaching up to shake Stiles bed when a howl echoes from behind the door.

“Stiles! Wake up!”

This time he shouts and Stiles wakes up with a grumble, attempting to figure out his surroundings, wiping the sleep from his face.

“Scotty? What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

“Something’s outside. I heard it. Get up.”

Stiles responds quickly, tripping down the ladder and grabbing onto Scott so he doesn't trip, watching the door with him.

“We can slip out the bathroom,” Scott thinks out loud. “But we need to be quiet.”

Whatever is outside makes another noise, a deeper sound this time, like a growl and Stiles must have heard it because he steps back.

The two of them wait anxiously and another growl rumbles from behind the door, to which Scott decides it’s time to get out of there before it breaks the door down.

He tugs on Stiles, pulling him towards the bathroom, stopping short when his best friend doesn’t budge. Scott wraps his fingers around Stiles’ wrist, urging him on.

“What are you doing, dude? Something's there. We gotta go.”

Stiles stares at the door, focusing on the sound and then steps forward, bringing Scott along with him. Scott is torn because he can’t leave Stiles to get eaten or mauled or even worse so he keeps whispering for Stiles to stop being stupid but they just keep getting closer to the door.

Stiles looks back at him and his eyes are kind of soft as he grabs Scott’s hand. It’s strange, like he’s asking Scott to trust him, and all doubts about whatever monster lies beyond the door disappears. It’s a weird power that only Stiles has over him.

“Real funny,” Stiles glowers, that softness gone, voice even and fearless as he yanks the door open, stopping Scott’s heart on the spot.

There’s a tense moment where Scott waits for something to jump out at them but there’s no beast. Instead, standing in front of the door are two campers, laughing their heads off. Scott is dumbstruck.

“Ha ha,” Stiles continues, “Laugh it up. But your little prank wasn’t all that impressive.”

“I’m pretty impressed,” one of the kids says, a blonde girl with smoky eyes. She's looking at their conjoined hands, smirking. Scott flushes and pulls away from Stiles.

“Don’t be so mean, Erica,” the boy next to her joins in, “You have a convincing howl. I’d be scared too.”

“Scared, no - Annoyed, yes,” Stiles retorts. He drums his fingers absentmindedly against his shirt, a reflex Scott knows is a nervous tick he does when he’s lying. 

“We just wanted a little fun,” Erica perks up, flashing pearly teeth at Stiles, “And clearly you’re not much of that.”

They squint at each other and Scott swears he can see a little spark of electricity. He isn’t sure if that’s good or bad. The boy at her side breaks the tension by putting his hand out to Scott, completely sincere when he speaks.

“I’m Vernon, from the cabin next door. But I go by Boyd. And this is Erica.”

Scott reaches his hand out politely, still embarrassed but wanting to forget the whole ordeal since the guy seems so friendly. “I’m Scott and-”

“Whoah, hold up, buddy,” Stiles interjects, looking at Boyd, “Don’t think there won’t be retaliation. You started this war.”

“And what? You’re going to end it?” Erica questions, her smile devilish and interested. Scott and Boyd look at each other and then at Stiles and Erica who are crossing their arms.

“F-Y-I your howl sounded like a dying cat,” Stiles snaps but before Erica can make a comeback, Boyd steps in.

“No need for hostility, we’re just trying to make some friends,” Boyd tells Stiles, palm out. "Sorry if we scared you guys. I guess we went too far."

“I think we did what we came to do,” Erica grins, using a red polished nail to lower Boyd’s hand, “And I don't mind a little war. Bring on your best game, boys.”

She links her arm with Boyd and drags him away, giving a final look at Stiles who is nodding slowly, mouth a thin line. The second they’re gone, Scott rubs his face, shutting the door.

“They were playing around, Stiles. It’s camp. Do you have to turn everything into a challenge?”

Stiles brightens up at the question and he places a hand on top of Scott’s shoulder.

“You should know the answer to that. Let the games begin.”

 

Two weeks fly by at summer camp and Stiles meant it when he said the games would begin. Every chance he got - whether at the mess hall or during the activities with the other campers - he took a shot at Erica. She never failed to fire right back.

Bantering at each other, pulling pranks, battling it out at tug of war - whatever chance they got to go head to head they took it. Too bad Erica is much slyer at it - which is why Stiles has been getting more _talks_ about his behavior from the counselors. She even makes it a point to blow him a kiss whenever he’s the one getting pulled aside after their stunts.

People are starting to talk about them, asking if they're dating, saying they would make a cute couple. Stiles always shoots the questions down but Scott realizes after the second week, that he gets less and less hostile with each one. Like he's starting to not be so opposed to the idea of it. 

One afternoon, Stiles is put on dishes duty and Scott follows him into the kitchen after dinner, wordlessly. He sits on the counter, kicking his legs back and forth, picking up a clean hand towel.

“You don’t have to help, Scotty,” Stiles shrugs, rolling his sleeves up. He begins to rinse the pile of the dishes by the sink with a scowl, “You should go canoeing with everybody else. You like doing that stuff.”

Scott takes the wet dish from Stiles’ hand regardless and dries it, setting it onto the clean pile. Stiles smiles fondly anyways.

“Yeah, I like this whole camp thing,” Scott admits, clenching the rough fabric of the towel between his fingers, “It’s fun being outdoors. Swimming and telling stories at campfires and stuff.”

“You’re such a sap,” Stiles laughs, handing another wet plate over, “I'm glad you see so much magic in all the dirt and bugs."

“Maybe you would see it too if you weren’t obsessed with getting revenge on Erica,” Scott says offhandedly, grabbing the next plate, raising an eyebrow when Stiles doesn’t let go.

“Hey, she started it.”

“She was just joking around. You blew it out of proportion."

They stare at each other and Scott squeezes the plate a little. Stiles looks away. 

“You don't get it. When she gets that crazy look, like she’s gonna man handle me - which she actually has a few times - it gets me riled up, ya know? I don’t like it so I fight back,” Stiles confesses, releasing his grip on the plate, chewing the inside of his cheek.

Scott wipes the plate dry and sets it aside, taking another one and then another. The two wash and dry for a few more minutes, both stewing on their own thoughts. Eventually, Scott kicks the cabinet and hops down, gingerly placing the bowl he just cleaned onto the tabletop.

“Or you _do_ like it,” he murmurs, the room suddenly draining of color and energy.

Stiles whips his head around and peers at him like he’s crazy but hesitates - actually considers that - and then shakes his head, going back to washing the dishes.

“You like her,” Scott clarifies, watching how Stiles scrubs a bit harder, pretending like he didn’t hear or didn’t care enough to argue.

And Scott. Well, Scott wants him to deny it.

He wants him to care. Wants him to say _no that’s crazy_ or _why the hell would you think that_ or something to prove him wrong. If Stiles could prove someone wrong, he would never miss an opportunity to do it. So, why not now?

“Moving on from Lydia then?” Scott asks, steering the conversation along, hoping to get something out of Stiles.

It’s so stupid how desperate he sounds. Why is he getting so upset over this? What’s wrong with him?

It’s not like he looked forward to this trip because it meant spending more time with Stiles. And it’s not like he was happy that Stiles basically said he’s the reason he wakes up feeling great in the morning. Okay, maybe he’s exaggerating. But it’s not like he’s been secretly jealous every time Stiles insults Erica or messes with her - which has been every second since they got here - because Scott can handle not having Stiles' attention for one second of his freaking life and there’s no reason for him to care or make it a big deal.

So, how come it _is_ like that?

How come he wants Stiles to say he doesn't like Erica?

With each second of silence, Scott feels dumber and more pissed off at himself. He’s being so clingy and selfish, getting jealous. It's pathetic.

Scott has the instinct to take his inhaler out, like he can’t breathe, so he ducks his head and tells Stiles he’ll see him later before he goes out of the room.

He hears dishes clatter behind him.

 

It’s only been a few hours since Scott’s conversation with Stiles and he wishes he could take it back. It’s his fault. He shouldn’t have gotten so obviously upset. Stiles is probably mad.

Everyone is sitting around the campfire that night, singing and dancing, telling crazy stories - all kinds of stuff Scott would normally be into. He’s not up to it right now though.

He’s sitting by himself on the edge of the lake, a little ways away from the campfire, miserable. The air is slightly chilly - just enough to where he needs a light jacket - but he doesn’t mind too much.

This whole trip should be over already. That’s all he thinks about as he skips rocks over the lake. Let it be over so he can go home and sleep the rest of the summer or whatever. 

No, he doesn't think that. He doesn't want to go home. In fact, he should be over at the camp fire, making new friends. 

It's probably unhealthy. His attachment to Stiles. Really, if Stiles can make friends with Erica - if that can be called friendship - he should be able to do the same. He should go meet some people. It's time to branch out, right?

That thought is interrupted by a rustle in the bushes and someone walking up to where he’s sitting.

“You’re missing the s'mores,” Stiles greets nonchalantly, pocketing his hands, squatting next to him.

Scott ducks his head into his sleeve a little more and uses his other arm to toss another pebble, making about eight skips. He can’t lie about the fact that his heart does a skip of it’s own when Stiles gapes in admiration.

“Dude, when did you become the king of rock skipping? That’s awesome!”

“I’ve been doing it for an hour,” Scott shrugs, throwing another. Seven skips.

Stiles has a go at it and the rock plunges into the dark water, sinking on impact. They say nothing for a while as the ripples pulsate out, then simultaneously burst out laughing.

“You suck,” Scott chokes, about to fall over when Stiles throws another that makes a funny plop into the lake. It hits hard and drowns on the spot.

“I do suck,” Stiles agrees, not laughing so much now, eyes on Scott. He does that thing with his lip, where he pulls it in and let’s it go so that it’s almost white. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Scott replies, throwing another rock, trying to ignore how his chest is lighting on fire. “You didn’t do anything.”

“I was being a crappy friend, you know that. You’re Scott McCall though so you won’t say it. That’s what I’m here for. To make sure Scott McCall isn't burdening it all on himself.”

“That’s not true.”

“I was caught up with a girl and ignored you - that goes under the very definition of crappy friend. Let's be honest.”

Scott grins despite himself and flicks his wrist, too limply this time, causing his next rock to drown without a single skip.

“Yikes,” Stiles snorts, “Maybe we should take back your title.”

“Very funny.”

They compete to see who can land the most skips and Scott wins by a landslide but Stiles is beaming the whole time, eagerly trying over and over. As they crack jokes and wind down, Stiles shakes his head, rubbing his jaw.

“I don’t know why I bothered competing with Erica. It’s always more fun with you.”

That’s another thing about Stiles that Scott can't help but like. Stiles is a compulsive liar - to his dad and his teachers and to strangers - but won't lie to Scott. Whether he _can’t_  or _doesn’t want to_ doesn't really matter. Scott appreicates being the only person Stiles whole heartedly is open to.

Stiles sits back down and scratches at his nose, before talking again.

“Erica came in and kissed me - right after you left.”

The cold of the air hits Scott all at once and he’s speechless. His jacket becomes too tight now and he can’t seem to get comfortable in how he’s sitting. Stiles is patiently waiting for a response but when he gets none, he goes on.

“When it happened, I thought _oh wow holy shit_ \- because a girl actually kissed me. Like, this pretty girl wanted to kiss me and did so I was all for it but then it happened and - it uh, I guess I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Scott pipes up, pretending to be interested. Maybe Stiles won’t catch on that he doesn’t like this at all if he acts enthusiastic. Stiles rubs his nose again and glances straight at Scott.

“I don’t know. I thought it would be this awesome thing - my first kiss. It wasn’t though. It was pretty - _unawesome_ actually.”

“Unawesome,” Scott repeats, “Sorry, dude.”

Even though Scott isn't actually so sorry at all. And that makes him feel even worse.

Stiles doesn’t explain anything else. Not how it happened or if it was gonna happen again or if this means he’s dating Erica now. He shifts and then clears his throat.

“Maybe it’s because it wasn’t Lydia. That’s probably it.”

“Yeah, probably.”

The air is so thin that Scott has to inhale deeply and he’s about to stand up to get some sleep - much needed at this point - but Stiles holds his forearm to keep him in place.

“Wait.”

It's urgent enough to get Scott to slowly settle back down, puzzled. 

“What’s up? We should head back before curfew.”

“Hold on one sec.”

He relaxes, letting Stiles win and after all this time finally looks at him. Then he kinda wishes he didn’t. Because Stiles is staring at him in this weird way. Like he’s lost or distraught or in wonder - something weird that Scott doesn’t get. It’s making him nervous.

“Dude, what is it?”

“I, uh, kinda - “

Stiles hesitates and isn’t getting to the point which makes the situation worse because Stiles isn’t one to beat around the bush. Ever.

He’s anxiously looking between Scott’s eyes and it’s pretty impressive that he’s gone this long without fessing up to whatever’s going on in that mind of his. He’s not one to stay quiet - not around Scott. Whatever he’s thinking _will_ be said out loud for the two of them, as if Scott’s a personal diary that Stiles writes his thoughts down into - embedding them forever.

“Don’t freak out,” Stiles blurts, getting Scott's nerves even more twisted up.

He inches closer to Scott, palm under his elbow for support as he leans forward, cheeks tinting. His eyelids fall a bit and he pushes up with his converse so that his face is right in front of Scott's. 

“What are you doing?” Scott asks curiously.

Stiles blushes and has to hold onto Scott tighter so he doesn’t fall over, skin going even redder.

“Are you kidding me, Scott?!” He whispers - high pitched and raspy. 

“What? You’re being weird! How the hell should I guess?”

“It’s obvious what I’m doing!”

“You’re literally just staring at me!”

“I’m trying to kiss you, dumbass!”

Scott’s lips zip shut and his pulse picks up at a speed that shouldn’t be humanly possible. Stiles readjusts, sighing in relief, and doesn’t seem to have anything else to add. He waits to see if Scott is opposed - anxiously twitching and not as smooth as he tries to appear. Scott doesn’t even know where to start.

He has no idea why Stiles wants to kiss him and why he thinks it’s a good idea because obviously it’s a terrible one - but he doesn’t say that.

He keeps it to himself, even when Stiles actually does close the space between them and brushes a kiss over Scott’s lips. It doesn't even occur to Scott that he's never kissed before until it's over.

He realizes his eyes were shut and quickly opens them as soon as Stiles leans back. Since this is Stiles’ plan, Scott sure as hell isn’t going to be the first to say anything.

That’s what he tells himself anyways. But then Stiles is awkwardly quiet - driving this whole messy situation into the ground further - so Scott plucks at a blade of grass on the ground by his shoe and grits his teeth.

“Why’d you do that?”

Stiles doesn't answer right away so Scott glances over, taken back by the expression on Stiles' face. It's dazed. 

“I don’t know.”

Scott stands up because he doesn’t like what they did. He doesn’t like being kissed like it’s a joke. Like he’s just some afterthought to someone else. Not even a few hours ago, Stiles was kissing Erica.

It doesn't feel right. 

“I’m sorry, Scotty,” Stiles breaks out, jumping up, “I’m Sorry, I didn’t mean to -”

“It’s fine. Let’s just go back, okay? I’m sort of tired.”

_Tired of feeling like an idiot._

“No, no, no,” Stiles urges, blocking his way with an outstretched arm, “That was dumb. I shouldn’t have done that. Sorry.”

“Okay.”

There’s a sting when he hears _sorry_ because frankly Scott doesn’t want him to be sorry. He hates hearing that. Stiles wasn’t sorry to kiss Erica. And then he kisses Scott. And he’s sorry.

Okay.

“I thought maybe something was wrong with me because I didn’t feel anything when Erica kissed me so I. . . I was. . . “

“Using me?” Scott bites, moving around Stiles in annoyance, stepping over the bushels in between the trees on the dirt path leading back to camp. Stiles runs up next to him and Scott can’t see his expression and he doesn’t care. He wants to be left alone.

“No! Not like that - augh - I wouldn’t do that. Now that you say it - it seems that way but it’s not - really. Listen for one second!”

“I don’t care, Stiles. I told you it doesn’t matter. You wanted to make sure that nothing was wrong with you so you kissed me to see if you felt anything, right? To make sure Lydia is the one and that's why? Did I get it?”

Stiles is silent, jogging to keep up. His sneaker digs into the ground so he can come to an abrupt stop when Scott turns around, eyes glassy, posture slouched.

“Did it work? Was it like kissing Erica? You didn't feel anything, right?”

He’s never been this upset at Stiles before. And even now, looking at his best friend, he’s not even that mad. He’s not, not really. He’s mad at himself.

Because Scott _did_ feel something.

And that scares him. He shouldn't be feeling anything strange for Stiles. His heart shouldn't be beating faster for Stiles. It's so stupid.

“No, I didn’t,” Stiles mumbles, unable to look anywhere but at the tree roots by their shoes.

“Okay, great. Now we know, you're just meant for Lydia. You were right,” Scott confirms, the heat and anger dying down, replaced now by something more raw. Like a nail is being hammered into his chest or a rope is being tied around his vocal chords. 

“I guess so,” Stiles nods, hitting the nail deeper.

Scott nods too and is about to turn around. Before he does, he notices Stiles’ fingers.

 

They drum across his shirt.

 

“Are you mad, Scotty?” Stiles asks, tensing up, still drumming his hands. “Do you hate me?”

 _You could turn the world inside out and drag the sky down and I wouldn’t hate you_ , Scott thinks.

He carefully give Stiles a once over, picking up on how he's extra fidgety, another habit of his anxiety.

 

_You didn't feel anything, right?_

 

_No, I didn't._

 

He studies Stiles' dancing fingers, the nervous way Stiles avoids eye contact and chews his lip and slides his shoe across the foliage. And it occurs to him what it means.

It's the first time Stiles is _lying_ to him. 

That's when all the sadness vanishes. As if it were never there. And Scott feels something else. A heaviness - the kind that hurts but is somehow okay. 

“We’re cool,” Scott murmurs, meaning it, putting his arm around Stiles who practically melts into the contact. It's so natural, the way they mesh together. 

“Okay, cool, because I love you and don’t want this to ruin our friendship or anything," Stiles replies quickly, playful tone back. Scott can tell it's not all a joke, hears that there's more hidden between the words. And that maybe he means it in another way.

In a way he's too afraid to admit. The same as Scott.

“I’m pretty sure it’s too late for that," Scott says earnestly. "I don't think we could ruin it if we tried."

“Yeah," Stiles responds, eyes lighting up. "But I wouldn’t have it any other way, buddy.”

Maybe one of them will bring it up later.

The fact that they're both lying about how they feel. Or they might bring up the kiss. Or maybe they won't. 

But for now, this is fine. It's okay to stay like this.

To forget to look up and see how beautiful the night sky is because they're too busy seeing the stars in each other. 


	5. Cherish It For Now

_I’m a selfish person._

_Because I don’t want to let you go._

_Promise you won’t leave me behind._

 

 

“The bus isn’t going to catch itself,” the Sheriff mutters into his coffee mug, slinging a jacket on, eyes pointed at his son in the kitchen who is stuffing his face full of pancakes. Syrup dribbles down Stiles’ chin as he gulps the last drop of milk in his glass and snatches his backpack up from the floor.

“Mmf, see you later, Daddy-o~” Stiles calls, racing out the door. He skids to a stop on the front steps and looks back with raised eyebrows. “Hold on. Were you joking just now? About the bus?”

“Yes, go,” his dad sighs, tossing a set of car keys out that have been hidden in his palm. He squints slightly when Stiles catches them. “But you barely passed your driving test so if I see one scratch-”

“Dad, she’s in safe hands. Remember when I took you to get a burger yesterday? I’ll die before I let this baby get messed up.”

“If you can call what I ate a burger, sure.”

“Just following doctor's protocol! Catch some bad guys and tell me all about it later, bye!”

The Sheriff was about to protest because Stiles sounded dead serious when he said _I’ll die before I let this baby get messed up_ but before he can, his son hops into his new ride and zooms out of the driveway.

Even though it’s not his first time driving the beautiful blue jeep, Stiles inhales the new car smell deeply and smacks the steering wheel with vigor. This jeep is literally his new baby and he will take care of it until his last breath. And there's nothing wrong with being extreme.

He somehow makes it to school on time and rides up to a nice, close spot in the parking lot. Before he can pull up, he’s cut off by a shiny Porsche that swoops in, stealing the spot.

“Yo, asshole! Are you blind?!” Stiles yells, rolling his window down. His mouth shuts abruptly when Jackson Whittemore hops out of the lavish vehicle, air haughty around him.

Jackson pushes the sunglasses off his nose just long enough to check Stiles’ face and then rolls his eyes, like Stiles isn’t even worth an argument. Then he heads off into the school, unaware of how hard Stiles’ heart is hammering.

Because he wants Jackson to be angry and yell back.

He wants to get into a fight.

Most of all, he wants to be acknowledged.

 

 

“This is nothing like summer camp,” Scott grumbles to Stiles after first period in the hallway.

“Dude, that’s because high school is literally prison. Nobody likes anybody and it’s dog eat dog around here. Screw up once and you’re dead. Actually, maybe it’s worse than prison. I went to one with my dad once and it wasn’t too bad.”

“You like that kind of stuff _way_ too much,” Scott says gravely. “Why did you want to go see a prison?”

“Because I wanted to check it out. See where the guys my dad catches end up - and I don’t know, I just did!”

They turn a corner and Scott stops for some water at the drinking fountain, wiping his mouth on his sleeve when he's done. 

“I guess at least we have next period together. That way nobody else has to put up with your prison fetish.”

“Hey, look at you, lookin’ at the bright side!”

They enter their next class and take seats in the back by the window.

Despite his words - Scott asks more questions about what the prison was like, the guards, if it was as gritty as the movies made it out to be, things like that. Stiles answers each with as much excitement as he can, trying to keep Scott interested.

 

_Just look at me._

_Pay attention to me._

_Acknowledge me._

 

It’s a selfish thought but Stiles can’t help it. When Scott is watching him with those lit up brown eyes, all curious and anticipated, it’s the best feeling. He wants Scott’s attention so much it’s almost a sickness. Hell, maybe he should get it classified. 

Because in all the time the two have been friends, Stiles hasn’t let anyone else get close to Scott. He watches over him, stays by his side, accidently - and kind of on purpose - prevents other people from interfering in what they have. Isn’t it okay to do that?

So far, Scott seems just as reluctant to walk away from their friendship, so he’s not the only one to blame here. Okay, maybe they’re a little codependent but whatever, that’s what best friends do - stick with each other. It’s fine this way.

“Is this seat taken?”

Stiles and Scott break conversation and look up. A pretty girl with dark brown hair curling over her shoulders and a glowing smile across her face has her hand on the desk in front of Scott. She pushes a strand of hair behind her ear, waiting for a reply.

That’s when Stiles notices the dazed look cross over Scott’s features and all the attention he was receiving earlier is now directly focused at this girl.

“Uh - It’s all yours,” Scott stammers, gesturing shyly.

“Thanks,” she replies, taking the offer and dumping her bag under the desk. She turns around and sports another smile to Scott. “I’m Allison.”

“Scott,” he says sweetly, “Scott McCall.”

“Welp, I’m Stiles,” Stiles points out, “If anyone, you know, cares.”

Neither of them look his way and class starts.

Stiles stares at Scott but he doesn’t look his way the entire class. He’s too busy studying Allison’s hair.

Just like that, Stiles can feel Scott is being tugged away from him. Like the time in elementary school when Theo asked to be friends. Like the time Lydia complimented Scott. Like at summer camp when Erica said. . .

Stiles shuts it all away and pretends it doesn’t bother him as much as it does.

It’s unhealthy, his attachment to Scott.

 

 

“Stiles, are you okay?”

Scott’s genuine concern tugs at Stiles’ heartstrings the second they make eye contact. They’re eating outside, on the grass, by the track bleachers, in the heat of the high noon sun. There aren’t a lot of people outside so it’s peaceful at least.

“Yeah, what do ya mean?” Stiles questions lazily, practically inhaling the rest of his grilled cheese. Scott looks thoughtfully up into the clouds and stretches his legs out.

“You’ve been quiet since Economics. Did what Finstock say get to you?”

“What? Hell no.”

It was the second week of school and their Economics teacher, Bobby Finstock, had been riding their asses since the first day. Scott got called out for texting in class all the time - usually texts to Allison even though she sits right in front of him - and Stiles got the usual teacher disappointment - what’s been shoved in his face since the daycare days.

_You’re a brilliant kid but this assignment is garbage. What the hell is this, Stilinski? Turn another paper in by tomorrow if you want to pass my class._

They sit in silence for a few minutes and then Scott looks at him.

“Hey, Stiles, I think I like Allison, like a lot.”

Stiles is quiet, murdering the rest of his food. It’s not too hard to stall at first until the silence is uncomfortable and he coughs down the last bite, strangling out his next words.

“Oh, huh.”

Scott sits up, skeptical.

“Did you say, ‘ _huh_ ’? I said, I like Allison, dude! You could be a little more - I don’t know - act like you care!”

“What do you want from me?” Stiles shrugs, “If you like Allison then tell _her_ , not me.”

Scott glares then and stands up.

“Okay, fine, whatever.”

“What? Why are you mad? Do you want me to do a flip or something? She’s just a girl, Scott.”

“I’ll talk to you later,” Scott mumbles, grabbing his trash and turning around. Stiles snaps out of it and stands up, palms starting to sweat.

“Wait, no, Scotty, that’s not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant,” Scott retorts, "You can go on for hours about Lydia but the second I like a girl, it’s nothing.”

“That’s-” Stiles hesitates because he really can’t figure out how to explain to Scott that isn’t why he’s upset. How can he?

“I’m just mad that,” he struggles for the right lie, “I’ve spent all these years on Lydia and you got Allison’s number in like an hour,” he admits reluctantly, the only excuse he can think of in the present.

Scott stares, baffled. It doesn't take long for his brown eyes to completely believe the lie.

“Sorry, I didn't think about that. I know it’s tough pining after her. Hey, I found out that Allison is actually close friends with Lydia-”

“What?!”

“So,” Scott coughs, “Allison invited me to a party tonight. Lydia’s party, actually. I was going to tell you about it before but now seems good. We should go.”

“Only a week and we’re gonna lose our party virginity once and for all? Count me in.”

“Oh my god, Stiles.”

Stiles laughs but as soon as Scott pulls his phone out to text Allison, the laughter dies off.

Stiles loves Lydia. He’s _in love_ with Lydia.

He’ll get her attention tonight because he loves _her_.

That’s how it’s always been.

 

 

Lydia's house is out of this world. 

It looks like something off one of those celebrity crib shows - or whatever - and Stiles can't get over it. He knows if it weren't for all the teenagers grinding up on each other, this place would be heavenly for a romantic night on the couch. Or upstairs. Or the backyard - even the roof would be beautiful enough.

The party music rolls Stiles’ nerves up into a ball until they shrivel. If there’s one thing that calms him, it’s bobbing his head and shaking his body around. Because you can’t really call what he does _dancing_. According to Scott.

Scott had vanished not too long after they arrived, leaving Stiles to wander by himself. After all, they agreed they were on their own missions. Scott was there for Allison and Stiles was there to win Lydia over. Simple plan to follow. _Easy_.

Stiles tried not to let it get to him, being alone in this place, with all these strangers. He really did.

But it’s all he can think about.

At first it was okay, the anxiety and nerves and sickness in his stomach at being engulfed in a crowd. The unknown surrounding him. It wasn’t too bad. Scott was with him so he was going to be just fine.

But as soon as Scott vanished to find Allison, the world did a 180° on him. Not so long ago, Stiles would love to be at a party, hanging out with the cool kids - or that's how he imagined it going. Add on the fact he’s at the love of his life’s house, he should be ecstatic.

Except he’s not at all because anxiety is a bitch.

He’s busying himself in the kitchen, tasting the alcohol that’s out, gagging from it but swallowing it nonetheless. It isn’t fiery like the alcohol that his dad keeps in the cabinet. This stuff is much weaker and it’s flavorless. As long as he can drink it though, that’s all that counts.

He gains confidence after a few bears and ends up entertaining some senior girls who either giggle because they can’t understand him or because they actually find him funny. He doubts the latter. He then stumbles his way room after room, sort of grooving to the poppy tunes bouncing through the house. The buzz nurses some of the anxiety so he's calmed down a lot. Maybe this party isn’t so bad and he’ll survive.

Going into the living room, by the stairs, he sees Lydia.

She’s dressed in a magenta color, beautiful against her pale skin, and her face is made up in soft pinks and reds. She’s sipping out of a crystal glass and leaning into the presence of a tall, broad shouldered guy.

It’s Jackson.

Of course it is.

Stiles knew they were a thing but it’s even more confirmed when the athlete puts a protective arm around her tight waist, daring anyone to intrude on his girl. The two of them look pretty happy together. Pretty drunk - but also pretty in love.

Stiles goes numb.

Lydia doesn't spare him a glance.

He manages to bump his way through enough people to get out of the house - out onto the front lawn, onto the cold street, and into a place where nobody is waiting for him.

A light from the ground catches his eye and he bends over, using all his strength not to fall, to pick it up. It’s his phone. Must’ve fallen out of his pocket without him even noticing.

_Stiles, where are you?_

A text from Scott, the only contact he has besides his dad. He types something back quickly but as soon as it sends, he feels an anger bubble back up. The phone dings. 

_You’re leaving? Why? Are you outside?_

Stiles types kind of incoherently back but gets caught off guard when Scott is actually running across the yard, face flushed, hair sticking to his forehead.

“Hey, I’ve been trying to find you,” he breathes out heavily, his asthma showing it’s colors.

“Leaving,” Stiles mutters grumpily, “Don’t worry bout it.”

“You’re not having fun? You wanted to come, didn’t you? Did you run into Lydia?”

Scott looks so caring, so torn up, so honest. It’s that honesty that gets him in trouble. And it’s that honesty that breaks Stiles down. Every single time.

“Fine,” Stiles sighs, rubbing the heat on his neck, “Saw her with Jack-ass-son and got kinda, you know.”

“Sorry,” Scott sighs, like he forgot about Jackson too, and is at a loss of what to say next. 

“S’okay.”

Scott tilts his head - gets closer, observing Stiles.

“You’re drunk.”

“Uh-huh, you should - detective work with my dad.”

“And still a complete smart ass.”

“You’re getting better and better, I’m rooting for you,” Stiles snorts, lightheaded. “I’m good though. Just gotta sleep it off.”

“You can’t drive like that. Come inside, lay down or something.”

“No can do. Not going back in there.”

“Please, Stiles? You shouldn’t have drank this much- not while taking adderall - you know that. Come on, you look pretty sick-”

“Sick hearted, a disease not even _you_ can cure,” Stiles laughs, spinning around, throwing his arms out to steady himself, “And for the record, I’m an amazing driver so I’ll be good.”

“Yeah, so _good_ until your dad pulls you over and you’ve not only got a DUI but no license and no jeep anymore. Or even worse, you could get in a crash. I’m not letting you do that.”

"You've been watching too many after school specials."

"What are you say- Ugh, let's go back inside. I can't deal with drunk Stiles."

Stiles ignores him and heads down the street, towards where he thinks he parked, but he isn’t 100% where that is. Scott races up after him and grabs him by the elbow, brows creased.

“Come on, Stiles, don’t be dumb.”

“Go back to Allison, I’m good. Don’t need you.”

“You’ve been kind of an ass lately,” Scott glares, “What’s up with you?”

The noise of the party gets farther away and all they can hear now is the humming of cars passing by on a nearby street. Stiles looks up into a streetlamp, squints, and then stares back at Scott dizzily.

“Hm. I don’t know, Scotty. I don’t know what’s wrong,” he answers truthfully, warming up where Scott’s hand is nestled on the crease of his sleeve. Scott is quiet and releases his arm but doesn’t walk away.

“Where’d you park? We can sit in your car until you feel a little better. Then I can drive you home.”

“No, don't, don't do that. Allison-” Stiles interjects, guilt pooling over.

He can’t let Scott miss out on his life because of him. He can’t do that. No, it’s not right. He has to stop being so selfish, so needy, so greedy.

Scott doesn’t belong to him.

“I’ll text her, tell her something came up. She’ll understand," Scott assures easily but it's not hard to hear the disappointment.

Stiles downcasts his eyes, watching the way the ground seems to move beneath them.

"No, I understand too. I can understand. Go back - I'll sleep in my car until I'm good."

"I'm not leaving you behind," Scott declares gently. He then crosses his arms and a sly smile peeks on his face. "Besides, you can't really handle getting sick. You're all over dramatic and whiny and-"

"What?" Stiles blurts, voice going higher, "That's not true!"

"Mmhmm, and you're also annoying as hell when you get drunk. You're whining right now actually."

"I'm not whin-" he pauses and his face gets hot, "That's a coincidence!"

Scott laughs because they both know Stiles is too drunk to be coherent, much less witty. Stiles drops his head and groans as Scott speaks again.

"Okay, so a big blue jeep can't be too hard to spot."

Stiles is about to apologize but Scott's arm is around his shoulders in a flash and he doesn’t seem phased by their sudden closeness the way that Stiles is. Since when was it the other way around?

“Hey, I shouldn’t have left you behind before, at the party," Scott decides, "Forgive me?”

Stiles leans into the warmth on impulse, into Scott. He can walk easier, much easier now. His anger and anxiety and heartbreak have settled and quieted. It’s selfish but he can’t deny what he’s thinking and feeling.

"Don't I always?" Stiles tries to joke but it comes out a little broken. He knows it's the other way around.

Scott smiles warmly and leads the way down the dark road, caring for Stiles, looking at him, staying with him. 

One day, Stiles will try to give up on this clinginess. He will.

For now, he’ll cherish it while he can.


	6. Forever. Anytime. Always.

Scott wakes up, alarmed.

There’s someone stumbling through his window and his first instinct is to get his bat - until his eyes adjust to the dark and he catches on that it’s just Stiles.

“Seriously?” Scott grumbles, sinking back into his bed for solace. The not yet working part of his brain decides it can not deal with this right now.

“Nope, no you don’t,” Stiles snaps, coming to Scott’s side after dumping something on the floor. “It is Christmas morning and like hell you’re sleeping through it.”

“Do you have to do this every year?” Scott groans, pulling the covers over his head in an attempt to erase his best friend from existence. All he needs is some good ‘ol sleep, Christmas can wait.

As if reading his mind, Stiles jerks the covers off his face and shakes him.

“Merry Christmas, Scotty! Santa Stilinski brought some presents!”

“Santa is being a dick,” Scott disagrees under breath, irritated -  ready to find that bat again.

“Dude, you know I’m going to win this. Hurry up. Rise and shine!”

Even though Scott has turned away and buried himself back into his _oh so wonderful_ pillow - he can _feel_ Stiles rolling his eyes.

The breath is knocked straight out of Scott’s lungs as Stiles pulls him nearly out of the bed, bringing him into reality as if he splashed cold water on his bare chest.

“ _Stiles_!”

In a matter of seconds, they’re tangled up on the floor because Stiles doesn’t know when to stop playing around and in the translucent blue light from the window, Scott can see that Stiles has a Santa hat on.

“Oops?” Stiles grins, not actually sorry at all and looking pleased with himself if anything.

Scott climbs off of Stiles and shuffles over to his wardrobe to put on some jeans and a thick hoodie because the cool air of the house is prickling over his skin even more than his annoyance at being forced awake.

“You won’t hate me in about two minutes,” Stiles decides, knowing that Scott’s grumpiness disappears eventually. “And to prove it, I’ll make you breakfast. I’m gonna go put these under the tree - don’t take too long!”

He scrambles off the floor, picks up a plastic bag and is out of the room before Scott has the chance to grumble anything else. Tugging the hoodie on, Scott feels a warmth spread over him - one that he knows isn’t entirely caused by the clothes. Stiles really made it hard to stay mad.

Not that he was ever actually mad to begin with.

Scott rakes his fingers through his hair and brushes his teeth, puts his boots on - the only pair of expensive shoes he actually owns - and heads downstairs.

Stiles already has eggs and bacon cooking on the stove and has got Christmas tunes playing from Melissa’s cassette player on the counter. It’s as if seven in the morning has never phased Stiles a day in his life which is - well, true for the most part.

Scott doesn’t even mention wanting eggs over easy because of course that’s how Stiles is already making them and leans on the doorway, looking back into the dark living room at the four packages now added to the small pile under the tree.

Every year, they do this.

Scott would never be able to sleep Christmas eve and Stiles would come wake him up in the morning anyways, right when the sun is rising, bring presents, make breakfast, and then they would spend the entire day together. After the sun sets, they would head to Scott’s house where Melissa and the Sheriff would be making dinner and all spent the evening together.

That’s why Scott couldn’t sleep last night. He looked forward to this too much.

“Yo, sleepyhead,” Stiles greets, like they're just now seeing each other. He places food out on the table and does an unnecessary pancake flip in one of the pans - only doing it because he realized Scott was watching him.

“Thanks,” Scott answers, sitting down. “But this doesn’t make up for breaking into my room whenever you feel like it.”

“I’m supposed to be Santa,” Stiles scoffs, offended, sitting across from Scott after the pancakes are finished. He douses his in syrup and digs in.

“Why not dress as an elf instead? You already have the ears, right?” Scott teases, popping the egg yolk under the fork. Stiles flushes and coughs on his orange juice, glaring over the solo cup.

“Hey, that was middle school me. You wear elf ears once and suddenly it defines you as a person. . . “

They chuckle and keep eating like that. Scott makes fun of Stiles’ food even though they both know he likes it, and Stiles jokes about how waking Melissa would be the end of them since she has to go to work and needed all the sleep she could get. 

“Ready to head out?” Stiles questions, hopping up to clean the dishes. Scott jumps up quckly and pushes him back, going to clean them instead.

“Yeah, there’s just one place I wanna go to first,” Scott answers, rinsing the plates and pans, looking back at Stiles. “If that’s cool?”

“Anywhere,” Stiles shrugs, “As long as we’re toge- “ he pauses there and clears his throat, “As long as we’re having fun.”

“Cool.”

Scott doesn’t bother bundling up much, it’s not like it ever snows in Beacon Hills. He opens the door for Stiles and is about to step out when a sudden weight appears on his calf and he hears a yelp from Stiles at the same as a yelp from the dog on his leg.

“You’re seriously five years old,” Scott laughs, hitting the white ball on Stiles’ Santa hat at the same time he looks down at Roxy. She nuzzles his boot, gnawing at one of the laces, and doe eyes at him - on purpose he knows it.

“You can’t go, girl,” he tell her gently, ruffling her silky ears. “Sorry.”

“I’m not sorry,” Stiles mutters bitterly from outside now, on the steps. Far away from the dog.

“You can have a nice bone for Christmas, tonight. How about that?”

Roxy perks up, paws at his ankle and affectionately nips at his hand before he shuts the door and walks with Stiles to the jeep.

“When that little demon turns on you, don’t forget I tried to warn you.”

“Whatever you say, Santa Stiles.”

 

 

The sun is rising in the clouds now, casting a little light on the cold morning. It’s calm and barren out on the streets. There's hardly a soul in sight.

“Sometimes I feel like the world belongs to just us,” Stiles comments, after making a sharp turn. He says it so calmly, in a so _not Stiles_ way, that Scott gazes at him curiously.

“Uh, that’s because everyone is opening presents with their kids right now.”

Stiles doesn't react to that so they drive in silence, enjoying the comfort from the jeep heater and the solitude of a nearly open road. 

“Right there,” Scott directs, watching Stiles’ turn the steering wheel onto the side street.

He doesn’t pay much attention usually but looking now, he sees how long Stiles’ fingers are. Normally those fingers are pretty clumsy but when driving, they’re solid, assuring, careful. Scott blinks and realizes how weird his thoughts are and raises his head when the jeep slows to a stop in front of a small house.

“I forgot to give it to him,” Scott explains, grabbing the Christmas present from the floor and stepping out of the car. “Be back in a sec.”

“Still gonna be here,” Stiles drawls out, “In the awesome heat.”

Chuckling, Scott goes up to the front door of the house and knocks. The porch light goes on and the door opens. Scott steps back and smiles sheepishly. 

“Oh, Scott, what a nice surprise,” Dr. Deaton greets, holding the door open wider when he realizes who it is. 

He’s dressed in a button down and a coat, an ivy driving cap snug on his head. 

“Merry Christmas, Deaton," Scott replies, nodding, "I’m sorry it’s so early in the morning but I wouldn't have any other chance to stop by today.”

“No worries. I was about to head out myself.”

”Oh? Big plans?” Scott wonders, moving back so Deaton can come outside. 

“Not exactly. Just meeting an old friend,” Deaton smiles kindly, letting that be the end of the conversation, shutting the door behind him and locking up. Scott nods again and then remembers why he came.

“So, yeah, I couldn’t make it to work Friday so uh - here.”

He holds out the white wrapped gift box hesitantly but Deaton takes it, eyebrows raising, face lighting up.

“That’s very nice of you, Scott. I appreciate that,” he says, holding onto the box like it’s fragile and looking up, face falling slightly, “I’m afraid I don’t have - ”

“No, that’s fine! It’s from me and my mom,” Scott cuts off, “But uh - I can’t keep Stiles waiting too long or he’ll get grumpy. Christmas with me is a big deal to him.”

When that comes out of his mouth, Scott furrows his brows, because he didn’t even mean to say it like that

“Uh, anyways, it’s the least I can do. You’ve helped me a lot. I really appreciate you giving me the chance to work with you.”

Deaton seems surprised again by Scott’s sincerity and stares at him fondly, as if he sees something in Scott that Scott himself can't. At ease, Scott rubs his hands against his pants and then holds his head higher.

“I just wanted you to know I’m grateful to you and that working at the animal clinic isn’t just a job to me - so, thank you.”

“You're a good assistant," Deaton answers honestly, because one thing Scott has learned about him is that he regards people as he sees them - never giving compliments to the undeserving. "And maybe one day, you can become a good veterinarian."

Scott doesn't know how Deaton knows that. How he knows that's the reason he's working there - to work towards his dream. He hasn't said a word about it to anyone.

But he doesn't have the chance to ask because Deaton reaches out and touches his arm gently and says, "Merry Christmas, Scott."

The touch is only there for a second but something about it causes Scott’s heart to swell in his chest.

He descends the stairs and slides back into the jeep where Stiles is impatiently tapping his foot, throwing a wave at Deaton who waves them off.

“You know, you’re weird, Scott,” Stiles blurts, driving down the street, rolling around a corner.

“Can you really call _me_ weird, Stiles?” 

“You just - you do weird things. Like giving your three month boss a present on Christmas.”

“Okay. And?”

“And - “

Stiles stops and gets to a red light, thinking over it for a bit. He looks at Scott, eyes soft, and looks back forward when the light hits green. 

“It’s not a bad kind of weird,” Stiles finishes, shrugging, letting that be it.

Scott rubs his arm, where Deaton had pat, and that pain in his chest stings again.

 

 

“This is literally the worst idea you’ve come up with,” Scott sighs, getting out of the jeep, looking at Stiles like _are you kidding_?

Stiles pushes Scott along towards the ice skating rink regardless. Scott doesn’t mind the contact so much.

“That’s what you say every year.”

“Because it’s _true_ every year.”

“Uh, no it isn’t. You have fun every time.”

Scott can’t deny that and smiles, liking when Stiles gets all defensive because they know he doesn’t actually hate any of the ideas. Not even once.

When they’re inside, Scott snatches up a pair of skates for Stiles at the same time Stiles finds some for Scott and they exchange, lacing the ice skates on.

“Do normal best friends know each other’s shoe size?” Scott wonders aloud, tightening the strings.

“We’re not exactly _normal best friends_ ,” Stiles brushes off, using Scott’s arm to steady himself to stand up.

“We’re not?” Scott laughs, walking towards the rink, Stiles only a footstep behind. He thinks he's getting more used to the shoes now at least. Until he gets up close to the rink and his ankles shake a bit. Surprisingly, there are a lot of kids and parents already on the ice, even though it’s still early in the day.

“No. We’re not,” Stiles shrugs. Scott doesn’t question further.

Scott is the brave one and steps out onto the ice first, crunching on the shavings that have already been torn apart. He luckily doesn't fall and hobbles a little further out at a snail's pace. He gets closer to the middle, where the ice is more solid and slick, and slides the metal blade across, throwing his arms out to keep his balance.

Too bad his arms fly too far out and he trips a little, catching himself though, breathing out slowly. A few kids fly by, giggling, and spinning - as if this was easy.

Scott regains balance and tries to slide out again but his skate skids the wrong way and he stumbles backwards - right into Stiles’ arms.

“Whoah, buddy,” Stiles laughs, “You’ve _never_ ice skated before, have you?”

“Have _you_?” Scott retorts, his face going hot because Stiles is still holding on the back of his arms. It doesn’t help when he kind of bumps his chest into Scott’s back, staying there while he steadies them both on the ice.

But Scott let’s Stiles do whatever the hell he wants because honestly - that’s a bad habit of his. Letting Stiles get his way. Letting Stiles do what he wants. Spoiling him.

“I used to go with my mom when I was a kid,” Stiles blurts out, moving away from Scott now, leaving an uncomfortable and unwelcoming cold on his back.

Scott almost instinctively moves with Stiles - back into him - but reminds himself that’s going to be weird and stays where he is, watching as Stiles circles around him and smoothly stops without a problem.

“Okay, let's see some ice skating,” Scott challenges. 

Stiles cocks his head to the side, silently accepting the challenge and miraculously skates backwards, going to the other side of the rink, avoiding the many kids zooming around. He pushes his legs out and in and then skates forward, skidding to a slow stop in front of Scott again.

 _Show off_ is the first word on Scott’s tongue but he’s too impressed to actually say it and nods in approval instead.

“Nice.”

“I know right,” Stiles drinks the praise in happily, reaching out to grab Scott’s hand, “Now, come on, quit stalling. You won’t get better by standing there.”

It’s quick and half expected when Scott goes forward too fast, running right into Stiles and sending them both to the ice, laughing.

"Ow, my ass," Scott snorts against his sleeve, which is now wet from the ice.

"Your ass is fine."

They manage to get back up and Scott takes Stiles’ hand this time - automatically, _impulsively_ \- but soon regrets it when Stiles catches his eye. They stare for a few beats too long and Scott suddenly feels like it isn’t okay to grab Stiles’ hand so he let’s go, and looks out at the other skaters.

“Uh, so - I’m gonna try to make it to the wall over there. Wish me luck, dude.”

He swallows and moves by Stiles, able to keep himself from landing on his face at least - even if he’s walking rather than skating. A few seconds pass and Stiles slides up next to him.

“Bend your knees a bit.”

Scott is about to make a joke but does as Stiles advises and shifts so that his legs are more apart, trying to mimic Stiles who is completely amused by this whole situation.

When Scott bends his knees more, he starts to swoon forward until Stiles’ hand push back on his shoulders and he sniffs, holding back another laugh.

“This is hilarious. I need a pic for Melissa. And future blackmail.”

“Uh, with everything I’ve never told the Sheriff, you’re out of luck on that one.”

“Damn,” Stiles agrees, taking his hand back out of his pocket and watches a little longer as Scott struggles just to stay standing. Impatience must have caught up with him because he grabs Scott’s wrists and they start going backwards, Stiles collected and steady while Scott wobbles nervously.

“I got this,” Scott tries to believe, easing his leg muscles a bit, naturally following suit with Stiles motion. The ice is almost menacing and mocking beneath him as he scrapes his skate into it, cringing at the vibration that goes through him.

“You’re pressing too hard,” Stiles corrects, “Just relax.”

They must look out of place. Two teenage boys skating together on Christmas. Scott thinks that must be what Stiles meant by they aren’t _normal best friends_.

Right?

Stiles pulls Scott along and they almost fall a few times but support each other enough to where they don't. Scott _does_ run into the glass of the wall once because they curved a little too much and Stiles can't stop howling.

"Oh my God, Scott."

"Shut up."

Stiles reaches out to help him up and Scott yanks on him, sending him to the ice.

"That's not fair, Scott!!"

"You set me up to go ice skating. A little revenge isn't uncalled for."

"Touche," Stiles grins, grabbing onto Scott again so they can both stand and try to skate like before.  

Scott observes how happy Stiles appears. Wonders what he might be thinking about. Wonders if  being here for the first time since his mom died is okay.

Even though his pants are starting to get soppy from the ice, because he keeps slipping on it, and he almost twisted his ankle a couple times - he keeps skating with Stiles. Because Stiles is overjoyed doing this. 

Scott can't stop the happiness daring to bubble over whenever Stiles smiles. 

“Lydia and Jackson broke up,” Scott tells Stiles as they get closer to the other side of the rink.

Just for conversation. To distract himself from that familiar warmth coming up through his palms where Stiles has now slid his hands down Scott’s sleeves - down until he was holding his hands.

When Stiles doesn’t respond, Scott looks up from the ice and finds Stiles is staring at him again in that way - the way he was earlier when Scott _accidentally_ grabbed his hand. Scott swallows and focuses back on the ice.

“Um. . . “

“Hm? What?” Stiles blurts, intertwining their fingers suddenly - _probably just for better grip_ , Scott thinks - and leads Scott to the wall, pushing them off again, gliding sort of along it so they aren’t in the crowd so much now.

“Lydia and Jackson broke up,” Scott repeats, his throat going dry.

“Yeah?” Stiles asks, less enthusiastic than Scott expected until it registers and his jaw drops. “Wait, _really_?”

“According to Allison.”

“When did - How? Who broke up with who? What - ?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask. Allison asked me to go out with her on New Years though. Lydia will probably join us. Come with us?”

Stiles is dumbfounded for all of two seconds before he nods furiously and in his excitement drags Scott too quickly, causing them both to fall to the ice for the billionth time. 

“So heavy, bro,” Scott mumbles into Stiles’ jacket from under him, laughter drowning into the fabric.

Stiles pushes him but laughs too, staying there until they catch their breath.

 

 

The sun is setting in the sky when Scott and Stiles park the jeep. They hop out and find their spot by the cliff, the one that overlooks all of beacon hills.

Getting closer, they sit on the grass, gazing out at all the buildings, all the places they’ve been and have never been. It's enough to make them feel small and big at the same time. 

Even though they come here every year, Scott will never cease to be amazed at how pretty the view is. How free they seem to be sitting here. How much he never wishes to be anywhere else than on this hillside with Stiles.

They don’t talk for a little bit, not while the sky goes darker, not while the sun sets. It’s just something they don’t do. They listen to the gentle breeze, they watch how the sunlight on the horizon fades and the light of the city grows brighter. How the Christmas decorations on each building start to twinkle across what feels like the world - at least to them this is the world.

And it’s then, Scott understands what Stiles meant earlier that morning.

 

_Sometimes I feel like the world belongs to just us._

The nigh air is chilly but refreshing as the high winds pick up, blowing soothingly over Scott’s face and neck. Stiles has his knees up and his arms folded over, his chin tucked into the crook of his elbow, his eyes out at the city. The lights almost sparkle over his glassy gaze.

The sun is setting further, the bright pinks and oranges and violets all fading into each other until they darken into a mellow blue and black.

“Scott.”

It’s pretty soft spoken, for Stiles, but Scott hears it and glances over. Stiles won’t look at him at first. Eventually, he does though - straight at Scott like it's all he was ever looking at it in the first place.

“Thanks for sticking with me.”

It’s a strange thing to say but Scott doesn’t care. He gets it without an explanation. That’s why they do this. Spend Christmas together and pretty much every other holiday and everyday after that.

Too many words are trapped in Scott’s breath.

_Forever. Anytime. Always._

_Thanks for taking me to a place you shared with your mom. Thanks for being my best friend - for being there. Thanks for everything._

None of it will make it's way out of his hardening throat so he just swallows and looks out with Stiles at the city lights.

“You too, Stiles.”

 

 

They get to Scott’s house in less than twenty minutes and find their parents chatting in the kitchen about their shifts at work today. Since crime and sickness don't take a Christmas break, they didn't either.

The Christmas tree is colorfully lit, casting shadows around the cozy livingroom. Melissa started a fire in the fireplace which adds a woodsy scent and Stiles doesn’t hesitate to race with Scott to the kitchen and barely even greet their parents before grabbing everything they need for s’mores.

“Hey, wait until after dinner, boys,” Melissa shouts a little too late. They’re already ripping the marshmallow bag open in the living room by the fireplace, Scott sneaking one at the same time Stiles is shoving one onto the log poker.

“Stiles!”

That’s the Sheriff and his voice is the only thing that's able to get Stiles to move the marshmallow away from the fire and mope. Scott pulls the slightly heated marshmallow off the poker and shoves it into Stiles’ mouth.

“Five year old.”

“Hey - mmmph!”

Roxy runs in, her paws scampering on the floor, yipping playfully, and Stiles’ eyes widen before he slams into Scott, clutching his shirt.

“Miss me, girl?" Scott grins, opening his arms wide to which Roxy hops up into his lap, paws at his chest, and curls up. Stiles casually let’s go of Scott and scoots away from him now that the dog is there, his back hitting the sofa front, a scowl on his face.

“One day you will love that dog,” Melissa sighs, coming into the room with a few plates that she sets down on the coffee table in front of the fireplace.

“Nope. No way. I can sense the evil that you guys can’t. Trust me.”

Melissa mutters _loco_ which Stiles frowns at but swiftly thanks her for the food anyways. His dad comes in and Stiles studies the plate on his lap as soon as he sits down.

“That’s too much gravy on your turkey. We talked about this!”

“It’s Christmas,” his dad debates, mixing a little melted butter into the mashed potatoes. Stiles’ mouth hangs open. 

“Hey! That's too much butter!”

“Son, will ya let me eat?”

In the midst of the Stilinski debate, there’s a knock on the door. Since nobody hears it, Scott moves Roxy and crosses the room. A rush of excitement comes over him because he’s sure it’s the gift he ordered for Allison. The one he plans to give her on New Years. The day he plans to ask her out.

Okay, so far he doesn't have that great of a plan for it but - it's in progress. 

Hopeful, Scott opens the door, blinking through the sting of cold air and stops.

“Hey, Scott.”

His dad has his hands pocketed and his posture is tall, much taller than when Scott was a kid. And even though Scott is bigger now, his dad seems to have grown too. But maybe that’s because Scott’s memory of him always had to do with his dad passed out or walking hunched over, barely there at all. Not clean shaven, with a crisp suit on - like the man in front of him now.

The only reason he knows it's his dad is because of the ID still on his neck, the one from his job - the only thing he was ever really married to except a bottle of Jack. 

Scott doesn’t feel much at first but anger starts to creep in and he wants to slam the door all of a sudden.

“What do you want?”

There’s a bite there, an obvious one. His dad doesn’t flinch.

“I was in the town over so I thought I’d come see you guys. Is this a bad time?”

 _It’s always a bad time_ , Scott dares to say but doesn’t. His guilty conscious won’t let him. As if _he_ even has anything to feel guilty over. But it’s just something he has to deal with. Sparing other's feelings came so naturally that it sucked sometimes. 

“Can I come in?” Scott’s dad opts for, keeping his hands buried in his pockets, face stoic, body rigid.

“I don’t think there’s room,” Stiles scowls, coming up from behind Scott, leaning on the doorway - almost like he’s protecting the house - or Scott, one of those.

“I should have called,” his dad offers, blinking at Scott, ignoring Stiles. “I - uh, can go. You’re busy. I just wanted to stop by.”

“That all?” Stiles sneers, crossing his arms, voicing the way Scott feels. If only Scott  _could_ speak.

“Here,” Agent McCall says awkwardly, fiddling around in his pocket, retrieving a hundred dollar bill. “Tell your mom I came by, will you?”

He turns around and Stiles shuts the door before Scott can even say goodbye or change his mind about letting him in.

“Scott, stop that,” Stiles confronts, ducking his head a little into his space so that nobody can hear them.

“Stop what?” Scott asks slowly, thumbing over the money that he didn’t even realize was in his hand until just now.

“Stop looking like you actually give a shit about that guy.”

“Sorry. . .”

“Augh - Don’t apologize! Scott, just - let's have Christmas, alright? Forget that happened.”

Stiles pulls him into the living room and Melissa appears, having no clue anyone was at the door. Neither of the boys talk about Scott’s father. And Scott can’t get the weight off his chest. Even with Stiles so blatantly trying to cheer him up for the next hour, it doesn’t help enough.

He is happy though. He’s with his mom. Stiles’ dad. Stiles. It’s great.

They open presents and everyone is laughing and it’s amazing and he’s so happy. The Sheriff got him some cologne and a nice shaver while his mom got him a few video games that he wanted. Stiles opens his presents too and so do their parents. It's all so nice. 

After a little more idle chatter, Scott and Stiles are sent to do dishes and it doesn't take long. Scott likes the busy work, not having to think too much. 

"Your family is in there," Stiles tells him sternly, scrubbing on the last plate in the sink. "This is your family. Got it?"

It's harsh but it's what Scott needs to hear. They look at each other and the corner of Scott's mouth lifts. 

When they go back to the living room, the Sheriff decides it's late and grabs his stuff. Stiles doesn’t even need to explain that he’s going to spend the night. He hugs his dad, a quick one, and his dad pats him on the arm, smiling warmly, before going out into the night.

Scott touches his own arm and it hits him all at once. Why it hurt when Deaton had done the same. 

“I have an early shift so don’t stay up too late boys,” Melissa warns, kissing Scott on the head goodnight. It subdues the ache that his dad left. He smiles, watches her ascend the stairs with an audible yawn, and let's go of Roxy so she can follow her to bed.

The room feels emptier now. It's just him and Stiles.

Stiles slumps down on the floor by Scott and slides himself beneath the Christmas tree, tossing a messily wrapped present. 

“Why don’t we just open our presents with them?” Scott laughs, catching it. 

“I don’t know, it’s tradition,” Stiles replies, inching closer to Scott, grabbing Scott's gift to him eagerly from the other side of the tree. “Even when we didn’t have money, we waited until midnight to open them. Remember when you made me the Death Star out of legos? It was so awesome.”

“Until it fell apart because I used stick glue like a dimwit.”

“But it was _awesome_ and hey, I stare at that pile of legos for inspiration every time I do my homework. I think - _if ten year old Scott McCall can make a death star out of legos at the age of nine, I can do this shit_. You know?”

“Hell yeah," Scott laughs. 

The two rip open each other’s presents at the same time.

Scott is confused at first because it looks like a piece of cardboard wrapped in plastic until he turns it around and realizes it’s a calendar. He doesn’t know if this is some kind of hidden joke between them that he forgot about until he takes in the picture on the front and realizes it’s not a joke.

“Dude, are you freaking kidding me?!” Stiles yells, throwing the wrapping paper and box aside forever. “This is - what are you - Are you _kidding_ me, Scotty?!”

“When did you take these?” Scott asks lowly, flipping open the calendar.

The photos inside are of Roxy.

And they’re all close up. Not exactly professional looking - clearly taken by Stiles’ phone camera - but all done at different times and up close, capturing her happy expressions.

“Usually when you’re in the shower or doing some kind of chore for your mom,” Stiles explains dully - only half listening because he’s busy staring at the new baseball in his hand.

He crawls forward and looks dead at Scott. “Signed Mets ball, Scott? You don't even know - I mean I guess you do since you got me a freaking signed ball and like - You just - but I just - " he gasps and his face scrunches up, "Why do you have to know me so well?"

Scott touches one of the photos of Roxy. The puppy he got when his dad left. The dog he slept with at night because she helped soothe his nightmares. In the picture, she's gazing up with her tongue out and Stiles' hand - he can tell by the long fingers - is under her chin affectionately. 

“You’re scared of her and you still. . . “

Scott finishes flipping through the calendar and finally looks up at Stiles who has gotten closer than he remembered.

“You don’t like her.”

“But you do,” Stiles says softly back.

Then crashes into Scott, wrapping his arms around his neck, holding him tight.

They don’t hug often but when they do - it’s this weird thing. It’s more intimate than they ever mean for it to be and always emotional, always safe.

Always what they _need_.

“I love you, Scotty,” Stiles murmurs close to Scott’s ear, serious and sweet, unlike their usual playful ones.

In the glow of the Christmas tree lights, in the warmth of the fire, in the silence of nothing but they’re quiet breaths - Scott’s heart starts to beat again.

The pain disappears and he knows this is about much more than a baseball.

He shuts his eyes and let's everything be okay, let's himself fall into his best friend, forgets everything else for a little while. 

 

“I love you too, Stiles.”


	7. Hold It Over Me

Okay, today was the day.

Or, night rather. Tonight was the night.

Yeah.

Tonight was the night that Stiles would _not_ interfere in Scott’s elaborate Allison plan. It wasn’t going to be like the last Lydia Martin bash, where Stiles dragged down Scott’s night. He would compose himself this time.

He would make sure this Allison plan pulls through. To the end.

And he's not going to mess it up.

At his doorstep, Scott shows up, and Stiles can’t help but gape a little.

He has his shaggy hair brushed and styled a bit so that his eyes are easier to see and he’s got a soft button up on that’s probably meant for Allison's touch. Okay, definitely meant for Allison. A ping of jealousy pricks Stiles in the side.

It's so stupid.

Keeping himself in check, Stiles bumps a fist against Scott's and sets off in the night with him.

They’re in the back of Lydia’s pretty Lexus and Stiles manages to actually greet her without looking completely dumb. Scott is sitting by him and they talk the whole drive, the girls play music and talk too, and in general it isn’t going as nerve wracking as Stiles thought it would.

“You brought the fakes right?” Lydia asks from the driver’s seat. The car is quiet until Stiles realizes she’s speaking to him and he sits up, swallows, and leans kind of on her seat so she can hear him over the music.

“Um, yeah, got them here.”

It’s still hard to believe he can talk to her so casually. 

The drive is short to the club and as they park, Stiles hands out the fake ID’s. They manage to get in with no problem at least. Even if the bouncer looks doubtful.

The club is classy, not as crowded as Stiles had expected. There’s strings of white Christmas lights hanging over the ceiling, creating a tender atmosphere. People are moving together on the dance floor and Stiles actually feels under dressed.

Allison instantly peeks at Scott and puts her hand out to which Scott laughs and goes on the dance floor with her. She looks dazzling in her glittery dress and the two might as well be prom king and queen with how perfect they are together. Stiles turns to Lydia who is already heading to the bar and ordering a fancy drink he’s never heard of.

“You been here before?” he asks, after he’s gotten the nerve to sit down.  

Lydia is gorgeous, in a tight white dress that flatters her figure, her red hair tied up with a black satin ribbon, and when her green eyes find Stiles, his brain fizzes a bit.

“A few times,” she shrugs.

“But you don’t even have a fake ID?” Stiles asks bluntly. She rolls her eyes at him and sips on the alcoholic beverage the bartender sets down.

“I don’t _need_ one. But they would have checked us with you and Scott around.”

Stiles can’t deny that.

The music picks up a little and Stiles taps his fingers against the bar, wondering if he should order a drink too but before he can, the bartender sets one down and juts a finger out to the other side of the bar. Um, what?

Who the hell ordered him a drink?

Stiles follows the direction.

It’s Erica.

“You have an admirer,” Lydia hums, picking up interest all of a sudden.

“Not even close,” Stiles groans, standing up. “I’ll be right back.”

Lydia doesn’t say anything so he walks over to Erica who is already grinning and stirring a toothpick around in her martini, her blonde hair tucked behind her ears.

“Are you a stalker?” Stiles greets, drinking some of the beverage she got him regardless. He sticks his tongue out at the taste.

“I’m here with Boyd,” she waves off, “You missed your chance, sweetheart.”

“So this is your way of - what exactly?”

“Just saying hi,” she shrugs, “Boyd went to piss and you were an easy couple of minutes to kill.”

“I’m glad you’re so hung up on me,” Stiles responds coldly, “But I’m on a date so I don’t have time for your little games.”

“You came over here, remember? Is that your girlfriend in the white dress? She’s pretty, looks too good for you.”

“It’s a work in progress,” Stiles mutters, annoyed, “Before you nosed your way into it.”

“You mean like how I did with Scott?”

She laughs when Stiles almost chokes on the wine in his cup and he wrinkles his nose.

“First off, wine, really? Second, don’t ever mention that again. Third, shut up.”

“Wow, you’re still so touchy.”

Erica’s knowing gaze falls over him when he accidentally looks out at where Scott and Allison are dancing close to each other, smiles on their faces like nobody mattered but them right now.

“Oh, bummer,” Erica says into her cup, “Sorry.”

“What?" Stiles snaps, clutching his wine glass, which seems silly in his hand right now. "There’s nothing to be sorry about, jeez. You don’t know anything.”

“Except that you wouldn’t kiss me because you had a thing for your little friend over there.”

Stiles shoots her the most evil glare he can muster and his heart starts thumping hard in his chest when Scott and Allison come up to them, bumping arms and laughing from the dancing session, dying down from all the fun.

It’s hard to look at them for some reason. It’s an image Stiles shouldn't see. They're a blinding light, especially the expression on Scott's face. How happy he is with her.

“Erica,” Scott calls out in surprise, “Long time no see.”

“Hey, Scott.”

Allison looks between them and smiles before going to find Lydia. Which reminds Stiles, he needs to be chatting with Lydia not Erica. Dammit.

“Well, I’d say it was nice to see you but uh - yeah, bye,” Stiles ends, ushering Scott with him to where the girls are talking.

“You’re welcome for the drink,” Erica shouts after them with another laugh. "Don't get too drunk, Stiles!"

Stiles grits his teeth.

Lydia regards Stiles when he comes up to them but returns to texting on her phone because Allison and Scott are in their own little world. Stiles bites his lip and goes up to her, putting his drink aside that didn’t taste good in the first place, and puts his hand out.

“Lydia, wanna dance?”

She raises her head and seems opposed at first. He waits anxiously as Lydia thinks it over, glances at Allison and Scott, and then stands up, takes his hand, and leads him to the dance floor. Her heels clack on the slick floor and it’s a wonderful sound, her soft hand in his own is a dream come true. Stiles literally thinks his heart stops when Lydia is in front of him, dancing. She isn’t really feeling the music and doesn't look very ecstatic but the fact that she didn’t reject him meant something. He hoped.

Spending New Years with the girl he’s loved since childhood is like being in a movie, surrounded by a bunch of extras. Lydia peers around, her expression blank and distant, but she still sways a bit just because she can.

“You look really beautiful,” Stiles tells her suddenly, speaking his mind. Her head whips around. God, that took every ounce of courage in his body.

There’s a decent amount of space so they’re close but she shuffles a little closer after that, smiling slightly, like it was the first time she’s ever been told that. Which is unbelievable. Lydia has to know she lights the room.

Even though his anxiety is through the roof - he’s scared he’ll screw this up somehow - Stiles tries to remain calm when the music dies to a slower rhythm and Lydia gives him a once over and puts her arms around his shoulders, tucks her head by his neck, and sways with him. He thinks he may have died.

It’s amazing being in her arms. She smells like vanilla and oranges and her skin is smooth, delicate. Stiles wonders when he’s going to wake up because there’s no way he’s dancing with Lydia Martin, no way in hell.

He catches Scott across the dance floor by himself at the bar, drinking a little bit and gazing out at him and Lydia. 

The lights in the room sparkle beneath them where Stiles is circling with her, in between the people, and for once he doesn’t feel anxious. He’s holding a beautiful girl that might actually give him a shot. Maybe at midnight, he’ll ask her for a chance. He has to. He has nothing to lose.

Scott’s going to leave him for Allison anyways.

Stiles’ eyes flash up and he wakes from the daydream, from the warmth of Lydia’s arms.

_No. No, no, don’t think that._

_No, shut up._

_Stop it. Stop thinking. Don’t._

The song ends and a shiver runs down Stiles’ spine as Lydia pulls away from him. Her green eyes are a little glassy when she gives him a thankful smile and leaves the dance floor. He wants to go after her but his eyes follow and she’s gone up to Allison already, who emerged from the restroom. Allison’s features become concerned and she puts an arm around Lydia, going out of the room, onto the outside balcony.

Stiles doesn’t understand but he doesn’t think it's good to get involved. He crosses the floor back to Scott who hasn’t finished his drink yet. Scott is poking around at the glass, lost in thought, but straightens his posture when Stiles shows up.

“Hey, buddy,” Stiles murmurs, sitting down.

It feels like ages since they’ve talked even though it’s been barely an hour.

“Hey,” Scott responds quietly, full attention on Stiles.

They look at each other and an uncomfortable feeling rises in Stiles’ stomach. It’s twisting his insides, distressing him ever since his chat with Erica. Why did she have to say all that stupid shit? She doesn't understand anything.

“Almost the New Year, huh?” Stiles mumbles, taking a sip from Scott’s drink. Scott watches and nods slowly.

“Yeah, almost.”

The obsessive thoughts that haunt Stiles day and night start to creep up as he stares at Scott’s laid back demeanor. How can he be so calm? He’s about to ask Allison to be his official girlfriend. He’s going to kiss her at midnight. 

He’s going to move on without Stiles.

 

Nothing will be the same.

 

“Hey,” Scott interrupts his racing thoughts, “Stiles?”

Stiles fidgets with his thumb nail, picks at it until it bleeds, and looks down.

“Hm?”

Scott notices, of course, and grabs his hands to separate them, looking him dead in the eye.

“Stop that,” he says wearily, “It has to hurt.”

Stiles shrugs.

“Not really.”

 

_Not compared to everything else._

 

The neon clock on the wall reads ten minutes ‘till midnight and Stiles sinks a little, an audible sigh escaping his lips. Scott’s trained eye picks up on that too and he scoots his stool a little closer, not letting go of Stiles’ hands.

“Are you going to hate it?” Scott asks in a hushed voice.

It would be impossible for anyone to hear them with the music and nobody is paying attention anyways - but Scott is always careful to keep important conversations closed off from the world.

“Huh? Hate what?” Stiles wonders, shifting awkwardly. It’s difficult to process anything because Scott is looking at him like the room just blurred into nothing and they’re completely alone. 

“Hate it if I ask Allison out?”

If Scott had a mind reading power that he never mentioned before now, Stiles is going to be extremely pissed. He taps his foot against the metal of the stool and lowers his eyes and then lifts them again, almost pulls his hands away but doesn’t and it’s - it’s too much at once.

“You get quiet when I talk about her,” Scott explains seriously, “And I don’t know, you’re weird sometimes around her. Do you not like Allison?”

Scott cares whether or not Stiles likes Allison. Scott cares if Stiles accepts her. He thinks it's important.

Stiles lowers his head, feeling more miserable. 

“That’s - that’s stupid, Scott. She’s fine,” he brushes off, “Besides, she makes you happy. What's not to like?”

It’s the most truth he can spout from his lying mouth. 

“You know," Scott exhales, "We're still going to be us."

The light glows over his eyes.

"You know that, right?"

His voice is sweet and earnest, like it always is. Stiles’ chest clenches on every syllable.

On -  _us_.

And he wants to ask what exactly they’re supposed to be.

_What do you mean?_

_Us?_

_What are we?_

_W_ _hat am I to you?_

Stiles laughs it off and guiltily slips his hands out of Scott’s because if he doesn’t he might do something regretful. He might ruin Scott’s happiness.

“Dude, girlfriend or not - you and me for life,” he snorts, gulping down the rest of Scott’s drink hastily. “And besides, did you not see me with Lydia? I’m pretty sure she’s starting to like me.”

Scott drops his hands and turns back towards the bar with a frown.

“Yeah, you're right. She’ll fall for you in no time.”

The clock ticks on and on as Stiles orders another drink to get his nerves back up. Scott watches but stays quiet and checks his phone.

“Oh, Allison is still talking to Lydia. Um, apparently she’s upset about something? What happened?”

Stiles furrows his brows and swallow the remainder of his drink.

“She seemed okay. I didn’t act like an asshole as far as I know. I have no idea.”

“Um,” Scott pauses, gliding his finger across the phone screen before looking up, “It’s about Jackson.”

Stiles’ hand freezes in midair and he lets it fall to his lap.

“Huh.”

The music shifts above them into a softer tune. A pretty piano melody picks up and encircles the room where people have gotten up to slow dance again, before the New Year's countdown.

“Sorry, Stiles,” Scott tells him, his body turned so that his knee bumps Stiles' own. Stiles barely registers it.

“It’s okay.”

“Give her time, she must have really loved him,” Scott utters, “She needs time, man, that's all.”

“Yeah, I know,” Stiles sighs, wishing he didn’t just get swept back into his anxiety. “I know that.”

The piano deepens overhead and hits a chord somewhere in Stiles’ soul. He inwardly groans and becomes all too aware of the loud voices and clinking glasses and bustling laughter. He wants to leave now. He wants to go home. Get away from everyone. Get away. It doesn’t matter anymore.

Lydia loving him is a pipe dream, unrealistic, something that _would_  only happen in a movie or a fairy tale and nowhere else.

“Stiles, you okay?” Scott asks, sounding farther away than before. He's in Stiles' space more which sparks another pain in Stiles’ gut.

 

_Make it all go away._

_Don’t let Scott worry._

_Don’t ruin his happiness. Don’t do anything stupid. Don’t speak._

 

_Don’t hurt him._

 

“Two minutes,” Stiles blurts out to distract him, pointing up at the clock. “You have two minutes to kiss Allison.”

Scott shakes his head.

“I don't want to leave you like this."

Stiles swallows hardly.

 

_Stop._

_Stop putting me first._

_Stop putting yourself last._

_Find Allison. Kiss her. Be happy._

 

Stiles rubs at his tired eyes and laughs again, hollow and empty.

“Dude, seriously, you’re going to miss your chance," he warns, "I have forever to sweep Lydia off her feet. It won’t be tonight but it will happen, got it? Now get that necklace out of your pocket, put it around Allison’s neck, and kiss her."

Before Scott can come up with a reason not to, Stiles keeps going.

"If you don’t, I swear to God I’ll hold this over you for the rest of your life.”

It’s silent for a few beats between them, unspoken thoughts left for another time. Or never.

Finally Scott eases up off the stool.

Then he’s gone.

Stiles tries not to get up too. Because he'll walk out. He'll leave altogether. But it will just make Scott worried later so he orders another drink. Might as well enjoy the New Year with a buzz. He considers looking for Erica and Boyd - so he isn’t completely alone - but his body won’t move.

“You and me, I guess,” Stiles grunts to his drink, emotionless. He’s reduced to talking to inanimate objects now. Fantastic.

The alcohol burns when it slides down but he doesn’t care. It’s there. It’s something.

People are crowding closer to the balcony to watch the fireworks outside, to celebrate. Stiles has never been so non-festive in his life. If that's even a word. Probably not.

He almost calls his dad but decides it’s best to wait until after the clock strikes midnight. Better to leave the suspense in the air. Besides that, there’s nobody else in his contact list. Maybe his grandparents but he hasn’t spoken to them in years. Welp, time to do this.

Stiles groans and rests his head on his elbow when the countdown begin.

 

_10\. . ._

_9\. . ._

_8\. . ._

 

Everyone is growing louder, roaring the numbers, booming his eardrums. Stiles raises his head a little and stares out at the bottles on the bar, the glasses, the nothingness where the bartender used to be standing.

 

_7\. . ._

_6\. . ._

_5\. . ._

 

In another world, he might have told Scott to stay with him. He should have. Scott’s his best friend, he’s been there for him since the start. Why can Allison appear out of the blue sky and make Scott’s eyes shine like there was never anybody else on his mind? Stiles has been there for everything, for better and for worse.

 

_4\. . ._

_3\. . ._

 

Maybe being cynical and envious is ingrained in his nature. He’ll never change. He can’t be a normal friend, can't even send Scott off with an honest smile. He’s never honest, not even with himself.

 

_2\. . ._

Stiles drowns himself in what’s left of his alcohol and slams the glass down, burying the confusion and self hatred with it.

 

 

_1!_

 

 

There are cheers resounding the room, screams and a mixture of unintelligible slurs. People are kissing and hugging and crying and laughing and everything is supposed to feel like change, like excitement, like hope. Supposed to.

Stiles pulls his phone out but remembers his dad is on duty tonight. He considers calling anyways, because he’s the sheriff’s son and can do whatever he wants pretty much - he sure as hell takes advantage of that fact - but he isn’t in the right mindset to cause trouble right now and pockets the phone.

Maybe he should look for Lydia, to comfort her a little, to say Happy New Years at least.

It’s something.

All of a sudden Stiles is dragged out of his stool from behind and crashes straight into someone’s chest. Scott’s arms wrap around him and he grips a little too hard, a little too needy.

Stiles loses air when Scott’s lips brush against his cheek.

It’s subtle and doesn’t last long but it leaves an invisible mark so deep in Stiles’ skin that he doesn’t think it will ever disappear.

The screaming drowns out around them and so does the music. 

Stiles can barely think anymore.

“Scott?” he breathes out, frozen in place. “Did you - What - Allison - “

 

_Gotta make sure I didn’t ruin it. Gotta make sure he did it. Gotta hug Scott back. Gotta move, do something, be okay._

_Make Scott okay._

 

"I told you I couldn't leave you like that," Scott discloses easily, naturally, not sounding resentful in the slightest. 

"No," Stiles murmurs sadly, starting to understand but not wanting to, "Why did you - You didn't - No -"

“I guess you have to hold it over me,” Scott chuckles breathily into Stiles’ ear. He hugs him a bit tighter and rests his chin in the crook of Stiles' neck. 

“For the rest of my life, right?”

The buzz of the alcohol warms Stiles’ face where Scott kissed him and his eyes go hazy as he registers what Scott meant. 

 

_No kiss with Allison._

_Scott chose him._

_To come back for him instead of moving forward with someone else._

 

 

Painfully, Stiles reaches up and hugs back, shoving his face against Scott’s shoulder so that he doesn’t start crying like an idiot. It isn't fair. Scott deserves better. 

Because Scott is too good of a friend, too good for him, putting Stiles above all else. 

Stiles chokes when he’s able to speak.

 

“For the rest of your freaking life, Scott.”

 


	8. Don't Be

Stiles taps nervously on his desk, glances at the teacher and then scribbles in a few answers on the worksheet before turning around to peek at Scott’s. The sheet is as blank as Scott’s expression.

“Dude, you haven’t started?”

Scott blinks and looks up through his bangs, moving his jaw back and forth.

“Yeah, I don’t know, I forgot to do the reading. I had a lot on my mind.”

There’s an _ahem_ from behind Stiles. Mr. Harris is there, arms crossed, frown thin.

“Well, Mr. Stilinski, I hope there isn’t any cheating going on here.”

“No, sir,” Scott answers for both of them, starting to jot down answers, bullshitting at it’s finest. Mr. Harris pushes his glasses up, goes back to the front of the class and Stiles stealthily flips him off before slumping in his seat. He finishes the worksheet and angrily chews on his pencil eraser, breaking a piece off in his mouth that he has to spit out.

Unable to resist, he turns his head to again.

“Okay, so - what was on your mind, Scott?”

“Detention, Mr. Stilinski. See you after school.”

Mr. Harris is almost pleased when he says it, as if he’s been waiting for a reason to give Stiles detention since day one.

“But, I-”

“Want another tomorrow? No? Then quiet.”

Stiles mumbles a few colorful curse words and shoves his worksheet into the hand of the girl in front of him as soon as Mr. Harris calls time. The bell rings and Stiles snatches up his bag, following Scott out of class.

“That guy needs to get the stick out of his-”

“I’ll talk to you later, Stiles,” Scott cuts off suddenly, walking backwards. He adjusts his bookbag awkwardly and then ducks his head, turning the corner before Stiles can reply. Dumbfounded, Stiles stands there, mouth open. It takes a mental list of recent fuck ups to figure out what could be wrong. It doesn’t take long to remember.

There Allison is at the lockers.

And she’s not Scott’s girlfriend.

It’s pretty farfetched to assume they aren’t dating just because Scott didn’t ask her out New Years but somehow. . . Stiles has this crushing weight on his shoulders since then. Since Scott did what he did. . .

On edge, Stiles goes up to Allison and Lydia, against his better judgement anyways.

“Hey,” he says to Allison, “Do you know what’s up with Scott?”

Even though snooping for information is in his nature, he feels sort of weird going to her for this. They’ve barely had a one on one before now.

Allison shuts the locker and her eyes shift a bit, between him and Lydia.

“What do you mean? Is he okay?”

“He’s not talking to me for some reason,” Stiles shrugs, gripping his bookbag straps a bit tighter because _damn_ that hurt more saying it out loud, “Did he say anything to you?”

Lydia grabs her purse from her own locker and then slams it, looping arms with Allison.

“We’re going to be late for Art. Talk about this later.”

“Um,” Allison lifts her shoulders and then drops them with a sigh, “Yeah, I haven’t talked to him much since the other night. I hope he’s okay.”

And she means it, Stiles can tell. The guilt grows and grows.

The girls walk off and Stiles texts Scott, his fingers hovering, mind selecting the right words.

 

_You okay? I’m worried._

 

Stiles stares and then erases the lines because that’s just not something he should be allowed to say right now. He doesn’t have the right to worry over Scott. If he worries, Scott will worry that he worries, and well - it’s tough having a bestfriend that literally doesn’t know his own self worth. He taps the keyboard on the phone screen and heads to his next class.

 

_What happened?_

 

 

 

If only Stiles could have been born a time mage. That way this detention would be over and done and he could stop counting dots on the ceiling. He’s already over eight hundred.

Stiles drops his head and groans without meaning to, earning him a stern look from Mr. Harris - there’s only five minutes left so it doesn’t matter - but he presses his lips together to prevent added time. The asshole wouldn’t hesitate to do that.

Stiles’ eyes travel to the window, to the vacant parking lot. Not even a bird to entertain him, bummer. As soon as his eyes begin to move again, they flicker back to the window.

_Wait._

_What. . ._

Stiles squints and sits up, a prickly discomfort going through his arms.

Outside, by the woods, next to the asphalt parking lot, is a person. A dark figure, a little hidden by the bushes. Stiles blinks and even rubs at his eyes but the figure is just standing there, watching the school.

“You’re done,” Mr. Harris states reluctantly, jolting Stiles’ head forward. When he looks back out at the parking lot, the figure is gone. A chill runs down his back.

 

_W hat the hell?_

 

 

 

Stiles rushes to Scott’s house after school, bursts straight into his room the second Melissa opens the front door, and almost falls twice on the way.

“I think there’s a pedophile lurking the school,” Stiles coughs out when he sees Scott. “Or a serial killer. Either way, someone creepy was there, I saw it.”

“What are you talking about?” Scott responds slowly, sitting up from his bed, rubbing at his eyes, “What pedophile - What?”

“Listen,” Stiles urges, sitting on the bed, “I know what I saw. A dark figure by the woods. Somebody was there, Scott, waiting. Waiting for the kill.”

“Or it was _literally_ anything else,” Scott moans, laying back down. “Like a kid smoking?”

“ _Kid smoking_ \- Scott, come on! It was after school! And I think when the figure saw me watching, they took off. Like they were caught in the act.”

“Jesus, Stiles.”

The adrenaline starts to dwindle and Stiles finally picks up on how sleepy Scott’s voice is. Heavy shadows accent his best friend’s eyes and a weak yawn escapes his parted lips. Stiles slumps a little.

“Were you napping?”

“What lead you to that idea?” Scott mumbles sarcastically. already drifting back off.

The room grows quiet and Stiles lowers his eyes, leaning out of Scott’s space. He stands up and fumbles with his backpack for all of two seconds before he sits down again, hand on Scott’s shoe.

“You should at least take your shoes off.”

“Mmm.”

“Want me to do it?”

Scott is silent, his eyes shut, his chest already moving up and down evenly. It bothers Stiles too much to leave it alone so he undoes the laces of Scott’s shoe, inhaling as soundlessly as possible. If Scott was so tired that he passed out without even undressing, something was definitely wrong.

“Sorry,” Stiles says stiffly, slipping the right shoe off and dropping it on the floor, wincing at the noise. “About Allison. That was my fault, wasn’t it?”

There’s a clattering noise downstairs - Melissa shutting cabinets in the kitchen, now on the phone with someone. It makes him feel at ease, like he belongs in this house with them. Scott sleeping so peacefully, knowing Stiles is in the room. The McCall’s just being themselves with Stiles there.

“You can still ask her out, Scott,” Stiles rambles, tugging the other shoe off, “You should, I mean. Ask her out.”

This time, he gingerly places the second sneaker on the carpet and gets up. Hopefully Scott would try again, to be with Allison. Stiles had to support that decision.

He goes to the door, looking back wistfully, and starts to close it.

“I can’t ask her out.”

Stiles stops, hand on the doorknob, and then reopens the door, finding Scott’s eyes open. He steps back into the room.

“Why not?”

Scott turns his head so that he’s staring at the closet door, careful not to look anywhere else.

“She’s not in love with me.”

Sensing the change in atmosphere, Stiles closes the door behind him and doesn’t waste a beat going back to the bed, back to the edge, eyes focused on Scott’s face.

“ _How_?”

It’s the first thing that comes out of his mouth but it probably wasn’t the best thing or the smartest because now Scott appears only more confused. The silence is unpleasant, thick and smothering. Stiles tries to think of something more intelligent to add but Scott laughs and rolls on his back, elbow going over his eyes.

“I know right,” he smiles behind his arm, gesturing a hand in the air, “How could Allison _not_ be in love with all of this?”

Stiles is about to agree but holds back and falls on his back - by Scott’s knees - and overexaggerates a sigh. Thank God it isn’t his fault.

“You’ll find another Allison,” he consoles, wishing he could sound more earnest. “But sorry anyways.”

“You sound _so_ sorry, Stiles.”

“Well, that’s-” Having no excuse, Stiles bites inside his cheek to shut up and not answer at all.

“Wanna know why?” Scott murmurs, dropping his arm off his face to the sheets. When Stiles hums in reply, he says, “She has feelings for Lydia.”

Never in a million years would Stiles have guessed the end of that sentence. He sits up again, eyeballs popping out of the sockets.

“Are you _serious_?”

“Am I the only one who hasn’t fallen in love with Lydia?” Scott mutters, offbeat in his speech, still tired and dejected. It’s sad, the way he says it, hopeless and full of surrender.

When neither of them speak for a minute, Scott laughs a little, the noise dying down over the room.

“I guess you have competition now, huh?”

Stiles sinks back into the bed but it seems invasive to be there now, more than ever. He goes through a thousand ways to comfort Scott all at once in his head but not a single one can make it’s way to the surface.

“I guess so.”

 

 

 

Stiles picks up on all the signs after that.

At lunch when they’re all sitting together, he can practically pinpoint the hearts that fill Allison’s eyes when she’s gazing at Lydia. How her smiles are especially bright when Lydia’s attention is on her. How she casually touches Lydia’s hands and shoulder and face, all innocent to anybody who didn’t know how she felt.

It’s strange for Stiles.

It isn’t right that he knows this secret about Allison - though he can’t deny how much it meant that Scott told him - but what’s really strange is that instead of being angry at her for trying to score Lydia’s affection, he feels a new connection to her. He can understand that doe eyed stare, that unwavering need to be around Lydia, the beauty in how she honeys every conversation so that she’s treating Lydia with the respect and kindness she deserves.

Knowing that Lydia’s last boyfriend was Jackson, it’s refreshing to see her receive genuine care on a daily basis. Even if it isn’t from Stiles.

The weirdest part, is that all the signs he catches from Allison, he relates to not because of his feelings for Lydia but because it’s the way he acts with Scott.

He’s aware of how he’s not a total dick - less than normal at least - towards Scott than he is with anyone else, the way he accidentally zones out on Scott’s face because it’s easy to get lost in his voice, and that bringing a smile to that face is priority to everything else. It’s not quite as rosy as Allison’s methods but he can’t deny the sentiment.

Before their next period, Stiles finds himself alone with Allison. He isn’t sure how to approach conversation with her yet. He’s still coping with the fact that his best friend was in love - and is possible still in love - with her on top of the feelings she has for the girl he’s loved his entire life.

Could the situation _get_ any messier?

Despite that, he decides to make somewhat of an effort, for formalities if anything.

“What’s that?” Stiles asks, curious, when Allison opens her locker.

Confusion spreads on her face as she picks the small pink envelope up at the bottom and opens it carefully, moving so that Stiles can’t be nosy. After a few seconds, she closes it and goes _hm_ and then places it in her purse.

“What is it?” Stiles repeats, going after her as she clears the hallway. She reaches her classroom and grins slightly, turning around to face him.

“Why do you want to know? Did Scott tell you to spy on me or something?”

“What? No,” Stiles scowls, “I just - I don’t know. Do you want me to leave you alone?”

Her eyebrows lift in surprise and she believes him, leaning on the classroom door.

“It was a love letter. It _is_ close to valentine's day, so,” she swivels the toe of her boot on the floor, “Just a secret admirer. Anything else, Stiles?”

He raises his hands in defense but she laughs so he takes it as a good sign. It’s an odd connection but it isn’t so bad. The late bell rings and Allison gives him an amused look, tilting her head down the hall, backing into the classroom.

And Scott said Allison was competition but weirdly enough, it’s the first time he doesn't feel threatened by her.

On the way down the stairs, Stiles catches a glimpse out the stairwell window. There, on the outskirts of the parking lot, is the figure again. His heart flies into his throat and he races to the glass, hands pressed against it, eyes wide. He’s too late.

The figure vanishes back into the woods.

 

 

 

When Scott gets home, he grabs a soda and chicken leg from the fridge before entering his room. There, on his bed, is Stiles, flipping through a bunch of scattered papers, forehead creased in forced concentration. As soon as Scott walks in and shuts the door, his head flies up.

“Scott, hey. Help me write these names down.”

“Should I even ask what you’re doing?”

Scott dumps his stuff by the door and eases onto the bed - pushing some of the papers aside so he has sitting room. Stiles immediately throws a few on the floor and then scribbles on a notebook by his leg.

“I’m narrowing down the names of recently released convicts. I’m gonna figure out who this creep is.”

“What? Stiles, no, that’s - Where did you get this stuff?”

“My dad’s office,” Stiles waves off - because who cares - and tosses another sheet of paper to the side.

“We need to get this back to him, Stiles.”

“I will. Later. Now, help me. I’m using red for pedophile, green for rapist, yellow for assault and battery charges, blue for-”

Scott snatches the highlighter from Stiles’ hand and drops it, stone faced.

“Seriously, Stiles, this is too much for a silhouette in the woods.”

“Uh, I’m aware of that,” Stiles grumbles, meeting Scott’s gaze, “I’m just - I’m trying to prevent something bad from happening. What if this guy hurts someone?”

“You don’t even know who you’re looking for or why or what you saw -”

“There’s a guy looming around in the woods, Scott, and it isn’t a kid,” Stiles challenges, standing up, “I’ll prove it to you.”

“Stiles, don’t-”

“I’m going to find out what this guy wants, with or without you.”

“You’re acting like a crazy person."

The room drops in temperature.

 

Crazy.

 

A crazy person.

 

Paranoid.

 

Delusional.

 

 _Crazy_.

 

Stiles stuffs all the papers laying around the room back into his bag and slings it over his shoulder. He leaves Scott’s room without a goodbye.

 

 

 

At school the next day, Stiles checks out the window every chance he gets for the mystery man on the other side. So far, no show.

When his eyes go dry from staring too long, he moves away, unsatisfied, and is met with fawn colored eyes right in front of his own.

“ _Boo_.”

He jumps back and Allison laughs. She holds her textbooks against her chest and flips some hair from her face.

“Don’t do that,” Stiles curses, grabbing the back of his neck.

“You were too easy,” she exclaims, leaning to the side so she can peer over his shoulder out the window. “What were you looking at?”

“Nobody - I mean nothing,” he sighs deeply, circling around her. Allison hums in approval and walks with him down the hall, but before he can round the corner, she puts a hand out and blocks the way.

“Wait, Stiles.”

Taken back, he stops and purses his lips, unsure of what to expect.

Allison avoids eye contact for a few beats but finally looks at him and angles her head up.

“Did Scott say anything to you? About. . . Anything?”

The halls are becoming desolate and Stiles hates the uncomfortable pressure of not knowing how to deal with this situation. He hates being in this position. Break Scott’s trust and tell her or lie and maybe never gain Allison’s trust.

“No - no he didn’t,” Stiles mutters unwillingly. Somehow lying to her felt as bad as lying to Scott himself. She blinks, attempting to read his tone, and in the end believes him.

“Okay,” she says softly, “I hope you guys can work things out.”

“We always do,” Stiles answers dryly, emotions drained from his voice.

She nods, “Soooo, I will see you later then.”

“Sure, see you.”

When Allison walks off, Stiles heads in the other direction, to class, but is stopped. This time he didn’t imagine it. There, out the window, in the shadow of the trees, is a man.

Anger boils over as Stiles' pace increases until he's reached the school exit, until he's rushing across the lawn and parking lot - straight for the woods. 

Prove it, Stiles.

_Prove it._

He's real. 

He has to be. 

Stiles looks around wildly, searches frantically, but the man isn't there. 

Maybe he was never there in the first place.

 

 

 

Stiles doesn’t talk to anyone for the next few days, he’s preoccupied. Overall, he's found a few potential names worth investigating at least. But every time he thinks he's closer to finding something out, Scott’s words ring through his head.

 

_Crazy person._

 

Maybe it's true.

He had nothing to go on. No evidence. Just a hunch.

A gut instinct , no facts or logic in the mix. Someone was walking around the school in the afternoon - So what?

Stiles rubs his temples and pushes hard, blowing air out from his lips, leaning back in the library chair. Without paying attention, the chair tilts a little too far and begins tumbling backwards.

“What are you so spacy about?” Lydia asks, her palm on the back of the chair, shoving him forward so the other two legs are stable again.

She takes the seat across from him and he isn’t coherent for at least a full minute. Lydia either doesn't notice or doesn't care that he's gone quiet because she doesn't question further and pulls books out of her bag, setting them on the desk.

Eventually he regains vocab and other kindergarten skills again.

“Lydia, can I ask you something?”

Her face is calm as she pops the cap off of a gold pen and writes in cursive on the planner under her nose. Her earrings sparkle under the fluorescent library lighting. 

“Is it going to be quick? This essay isn’t going to write itself.”

“Do you ever try to do something good but end up screwing it all up?”

She smooths her dress down a bit and her rouge lips curve upward.

“Every guy I’ve ever dated?”

Stiles leans his arms on the table and watches how her head goes low again and how she begins writing, not giving him time to address that seriously. When he regains face, she rolls her eyes.

“Kidding, Stiles.”

He wishes he could reach out and tuck her hair behind her ear or spurt out every nice thought he’s ever had of her over the years - minus the inappropriate ones. In this corner of the library, where Lydia is finally giving him her undivided attention - he realizes just how shallow his crush has always been.

She’s pretty - _stunning_ , actually - and smart, amazingly so. But all in all, he hardly knew anything about her. This whole time, all this pining, it was for a girl he held on a pedestal. An image, not a person.

“You’re not a screw up, Lydia,” he tells her gently, hoping every word goes through and manifests itself into her conscious so she can truly believe it.

"Maybe I don't know much about you, what you've been through, who you've been with, but - " he inhales and averts his eyes, "I just - I know you're worth more than you think."

Lydia’s eyebrows furrow, her lips part, her eyelids drop a little.

Stiles can’t take it.

Allison talks to her, comforts her, makes her laugh, does everything you’re supposed to do with the person you care about. Without expecting anything back.

“I gotta head out but good luck with your paper,” Stiles discloses, standing, gathering his things. The expression on her face ingrains itself sharply in his memory, stashed away, for another time when he deserves to face it.

 

 

 

It’s raining outside and Stiles can barely focus on the pile of notes all over his desk. His room is kind of a mess, his sheets are sprawled on the floor with his homework and documents from the Sheriff’s station. It’s like a tornado hit the room.

Ignoring all this, Stiles searches through his laptop, types in whatever he can find from the reports. He gulps down another energy drink and when his eye catches how late it is on the alarm clock, he unplugs it so he doesn’t have to add that on the details whirling through his head.

“Okay, you moved to San Francisco, not likely,” Stiles mumbles to himself, to the dark room. The only light is coming from the dim lamp on the desk - the one that flickers every now and then because the bulb is hanging on by a thread.

He remembered little about the man’s face - he was just too damn far to see. It was definatly a guy though. That narrows the suspects down, right? Stiles rubs his head as the phone by his wrist buzzes for the tenth time. He turns it over, opening a fresh energy drink so he can get a clue before the sun hits the clouds.

There’s a tap on the window.

Stiles freezes like a deer in headlights.

He slowly turns his head and pushes himself out of the computer chair. There’s another scrape and he mildly wonders if it’s just a tree branch sliding against the glass. When the tap gets louder, his expectation dies.

Stiles swallows, searching his room for the army knife his dad got him a few birthdays ago. When he slides under the bed to check, the window opens. The wind outside howls, rushes cold air into the room, until the window snaps shut again.

Stiles holds his breath, hidden under the bed, heartbeat rising.

He could scream but that wouldn't matter. His dad isn't even home. There's no sound in the room - except the rain against the window glass. Stiles' hand fumbles around, trying to blindly find the knife, until it touches something warm.

His blood runs cold.

Before he can react, Scott is next to him, palm against Stiles' collarbone.

“Hey, shh, it’s just me.”

Stiles catches his breath - feels like he’s been running a marathon - and reflexively takes one of Scott’s hands from his shirt, unable to speak, shivering a bit because Scott’s hands are cold. Scott gazes at him and then scoots closer, rubbing a thumb over Stiles’ hand in response.

“You’ve been up all night, Stiles?”

“Yeah,” Stiles replies, shutting his eyes a bit, exhausted beyond belief. 

“This about that guy at the school?”

“Yeah.”

He waits for the lecture but Scott doesn’t give it to him. Instead, he removes his red hood off his head - having difficulty since the space is so small under the bed but manages - and Stiles can see how damp his hair is. Bothered, Stiles reaches out and moves a few dripping strands out of Scott's eyes. Scott blinks and stares back, soundless. 

It’s then Stiles remembers why he isn't talking to Scott lately and releases his hand, not bothering to hide the resentment on his face. Scott picks up on it and doesn’t comment. He slides out from under the bed, leaving Stiles alone - like he wants.

Good.

He expects Scott to crawl back through the window but instead, Scott is moving around the room, moving things, making a white noise of his presence. Stiles listens silently to Scott’s shoes rubbing over the carpet, to the shuffling of papers, to the sound of debris hitting the trash can. Scott gathers the bed sheets piled next to the chair and makes the bed, going around each side to tuck everything in it’s rightful place, the way it’s most comfortable.

Stiles’ heart thumps slow and his throat sinks in on itself when he realizes what Scott’s doing.

“It’s four in the morning, Stiles,” Scott murmurs, plugging the alarm clock back in, picking up the untouched bottle of ADHD medication, “You should go to sleep soon.”

Cleaning the room, making the bed, organizing the desk, _caring_ \- cleared so much of the clutter overwhelming Stiles’ brain. The abnormal jumpiness, the over consumption of energy drinks, forgetting to take his medicine - Scott caught all of it.

Putting up a front, Stiles gets out from under the bed, sweeps his eyes over the clean room, and relief washes over him like a warm shower. While his mind takes a breather, he hesitates to meet Scott’s eyes. Scott is still putting the police reports together, stacking them neatly, quiet, composed.

“Allison got a weird letter today, from an admirer,” Scott says gravely, looking at Stiles.

A drop of water ghosts over his eyelash and then trails down the side of his cheek.

“Weird? How?” Stiles wonders, pushing emotions down in favor of curiosity, “She seemed okay with the last one."

“She’s already gotten five since then," Scott replies, glancing over, "All the same handwriting, same signature. _Sincerely me again_. She said they were harmless at first but now they’re getting scarily personal.”

Scott yanks his soaked bag off the window pane and unzips it, pulls a pink envelope out, and hands it over to Stiles who’s eyes scan on contact.

“It mentions her address and everything,” Scott explains, “And it talks about their future together. It’s disturbing.”

“Disturbing? Try psychotic,” Stiles scoffs, baffled. He hands it back over and crosses his arms over his chest, feeling smaller than before. “But I would know all about that - wouldn’t I?”

Scott’s eyes lift, unfazed and seeking. He puts the bag and letter aside and drops his arms to his side, turning his head to the window.

“I didn’t mean to say it like that, Stiles. You know I don’t think you’re actually. . .”

“A crazy person? You sure?” Stiles snaps bitterly. “Because you’re right. I’m running around trying to chase some shadow guy who doesn’t exist, getting freaking nowhere, doing nothing for anybody - and you're right. I _am_ crazy.”

Stiles sits on the end of the bed and laces his fingers together, clutching hard.

“You know I didn’t mean it like that, Stiles, you _know_ I didn’t,” Scott defends, “I would _never_ do that to you, how could you even think -?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles responds quickly, tears threatening his vision. Shit. He can’t start crying like a baby in front of Scott over something so stupid and worthless. He knows he shouldn’t have interpreted it that way. Scott would never deliberately hurt him. It didn't stop it from stinging.

Stiles crams his hands together angrily.

 

_Don’t cry. Get over it._

_Suck it up._

 

Scott sits next to him and their arms touch. He downcasts his eyes to Stiles’ own.

“You're not your mom, Stiles."

 

That did it.

 

A tear trickles down Stiles’ face but he swipes at it, hoping Scott didn’t catch on. It only takes a single glance to know that he did.

“I think the guy at the school - the one you saw - could be stalking Allison,” Scott blurts, eyes fixated on Stiles' hands.

“It doesn’t matter. The police won’t do anything,” Stiles shrugs, “They don’t get involved unless he actually hurts her or draws attention to himself.”

“Then let’s do something about this guy. He’s scaring Allison and following her. Let's confront him after school tomorrow.”

When Scott bumps their shoulders, Stiles freezes.

He tries to calm down so he can speak properly without babbling or choking up but the attempt fails. Scott seems to get it and rubs his back soothingly, smoothing over Stiles' shirt in a slow motion. 

“I can’t have you being mad at me, you’re my best friend,” Scott whispers faintly. He’s so careful and polite - moving something within Stiles.

The rain hits the roof a little harder above them, draining out the buzzing of the lamp on the desk - draining out Stiles' own breathing. 

Scott shifts a little, “Stiles, I’m sor-”

“Don’t,” Stiles interrupts, wiping the underside of his eye, untangling his own hands, releasing the tension.

When they look at each other, another drop of water falls from the tip of Scott’s wet hair and hits the carpet and Stiles moves closer, leans his cheek into Scott’s shoulder, and shuts his eyes.

“Don’t be.”


	9. I'll Stay as Long as You Want

“Still no sign of him?”

Stiles sips on his gatorade and squints out at the woods beyond the school, shaking his head at Scott.

“None. It’s like he sensed we were going to corner his ass and booked it.”

“Maybe he lost interest in Allison,” Scott sighs, relieved, sitting in front of Stiles at the picnic table. He folds his arms over the dusty wood and heaves out a sigh. A few leaves fall out of the trees overhead. One lands on Stiles’ head.

“We didn’t even have the chance to spook him,” Stiles mumbles, plucking the leaf from his hair, “Stalkers don’t just leave on their own.”

“I guess we were wrong then. Maybe the woods guy had nothing to do with Allison.”

“Allison hasn’t gotten another letter this week. That can’t be a coincidence. Let’s keep a lookout - he’s probably waiting for his chance,” Stiles declares, putting his gatorade out to Scott.

“Who’s waiting for what chance?” Lydia wonders, coming up to them, sitting by Scott and cocking her head to the side. Scott almost chokes on the gatorade bottle as Allison slides in next to Stiles, also curious.

“Uh - “ Scott glances at Stiles but he chooses _now_ to shove a slice of pizza into his mouth - oh, Scott’s going to get revenge for that later - then slowly back at Lydia, “A lookout for coach,” he comes up with on the spot, “He’s uh - been on me about my grade in his class. I might not be able to play in another game if I don’t finish that paper due next week.”

“I can help you,” Lydia offers easily, earning a wide eyed look from Stiles. She twirls a lock of hair around her finger and waits for an answer. All eyes are trained on Scott.

“It’s okay, I’m almost done. Thanks though,” Scott smiles, unable to hide it, brushing off the visible jealousy of the other two

She shrugs and unpacks her lunch, biting into an apple and crossing her leg over the other. Allison glances at Stiles and then Scott before unwrapping her own lunch.

“Mind if I come cheer you on at the game tonight, Scott?” she asks, stirring the homemade pasta.

“What about - _mmmf_ \- me?” Stiles whines in between chews, giving her an accusing look. She laughs.

“Yes, you too, Stiles.”

“You better win, make it worth our time,” Lydia joins in, plucking the olives out of her salad.

Scott and Stiles share a knowing, fearful look.

“We’ll win, we’re great,” Stiles snorts, done eating.

Scott nods.

“Yep. We’re great.”

  
  


“We suck, Stiles,” Scott moans into his hands, pre-game nervousness entering his system. Stiles slaps a hand on his shoulder enthusiastically.

“We’re on the team, aren’t we? We’re fine.”

“Because they had two empty spots,” Scott mutters, "And Allison’s watching. I’m so dead.”

“I'm sorry - _what_? You _still_ want to impress Allison?” Stiles scoffs in disbelief, yanking his lacrosse stick off the grass, “Scott, you're going to be that guy? The guy who chases the girl after she already let you down?”

"She didn't let me down, Stiles," Scott remarks sternly, "And guess what? You should have seen your face today with Lydia. You can't really complain.”

“Asses on the field,” Coach Finstock yells, blowing his whistle, whisking his arm out wildly. "Except you Greenberg, sit down!"

“At least you can play,” Stiles grumbles to Scott on the bleacher, watching his best friend stand up. “I got benched with Greenberg.  _Greenberg_ , Scott."

“Only because Murphy’s in the hospital,” Scott shrugs. "And Greenberg isn't as bad as everyone thinks he is. But if it makes you feel any better, I’m just gonna embarrass myself anyways.”

“Dude,” Stiles sighs, “You'll kill ‘em out there. Okay, don't actually  _kill_ anyone - but crack some skulls or - okay that’s -”

“Or you can cheer me on and I’ll be good,” Scott laughs, backing up and pulling his helmet over his head, giving Stiles a thumbs up. Stiles returns it but when Scott's back is turned, he has to rub his cheeks, to ignore the heat rising in them.

Behind him, Stiles can hear the crowd chattering and picks up a couple voices -  _look, there’s Stiles_ along with _Why’s he benched?_ Stiles recognizes the voices and peeks over his shoulder, finding two people waving at him.

The Sheriff and Melissa sit down after he awkwardly waves back and then the referee blows the whistle. Stiles whips his head towards the game - the players are already at it, racing around the grass with the ball. Some of the guys out there are giants - _what are they putting in the milk these days_ \- and Stiles imagines Scott getting trampled and winces.

The game goes by pretty fast, neither team is all that great so nothing groundbreaking to see really. Scott has gotten the ball a few times but he fumbles too much, can’t keep his feet steady - just like with ice skating - but it’s amusing to see anyways.

Jackson is carrying the game for the most part, as much as Stiles hates to admit it. He’s not very fast but he’s a good shot. Which is what counts.

Danny’s the quick one. He’s good at stealing the ball and passing it to Jackson near the other team’s goal. They’re doing a great job at teamwork, something the rest of the players are lacking. It makes Stiles jealous for some reason - maybe because he wants to play out there too. Okay, he for sure wants to play in the game too.

In a blink, his eyes land on Scott again. Scott can’t seem to stay still but his zooming around is for nothing because the ball rarely goes his way. When their team scores, Stiles scans the crowd - Lydia’s strawberry blonde hair stands out against the sea of people. Allison is there too, clapping.

Watching Scott again, Stiles wonders if Lydia came to watch Jackson afterall. He _is_ team captain and is kicking ass. It brings a little guilt over him, seeing Scott run around like a lost dog, and Allison is watching. Hopefully Allison s still cheering him on. Of course she is. She’s Allison, kind, sweet, Allison.

Out of nowhere, something flashes in Stiles’ vision.

Across the field, there’s a guy taking photos of the game.

At the same instant, Scott snags the ball. That would be great if it weren’t for a player from the other team ramming straight into his back, sending him to the ground, face planting like no tomorrow.

Oh, shit.

The referee blows the whistle and another flash goes across Stiles’ vision.

People are gathering around Scott, helping him stand. Stiles doesn’t realize it until he’s up and running across the field that he’s panicking. He shoves a few players out of the way but there are so many freaking people.

“How many fingers, McCall?” Coach is asking, holding three fingers up to Scott’s face impatiently.

“Two?” Scott answers hesitantly. The Coach drops a finger and looks at everyone, daring them to disagree.

“He’s fine! Everyone back off, he’s fine!”

Their teammates head back in position for the next inning and Scott turns to Stiles, “I’m okay-”

“That means you too, Stilinski! Back on the bench!” Coach shouts, pushing Stiles away from Scott, calling orders out to the other players.

Dejected, Stiles complies but another flash of light breaks his concentration. He zones in on the flash, on the kid with the camera. Something about it pisses Stiles off. It doesn't take much thinking to realize what it is.

Just now, the camera guy took a snap of Scott falling on the field. And a shot after.

That’s not happening. No way the whole school is seeing that.

Stiles goes around the field, bleeds into the darkness for a moment before he circles the other bleachers and catches the guy with the camera aiming for another picture.

“You think that’s funny?” Stiles charges, getting in front of the guy to block his range. “Delete the last picture you took. Now.”

“What the hell?” The boy questions bitterly, lowering the camera from his face, “This is for the yearbook. I’ll take whatever pictures I want.”

“Scott got hurt, delete it,” Stiles enforces, “Or your camera might not make it through the rest of the night.”

“Is that a threat?” the boy shoots back, “Because it sounds a lot like one.”

Making a split-second decision, Stiles snatches the camera from the boy’s hands and flees as fast as his legs can carry him.

Lucky for him, nobody is paying attention or he’d be in serious shit right now, especially with his dad sitting in seeing distance. Stiles doesn’t care about that right now or if this kid decks him later.

He can’t let that picture of Scott exist. It's humiliating.

His fingers fly through the photo set as he runs further - where the light of the field doesn’t quite reach anymore.

As his thumbs presses over more and more images, Stiles swallows a lump in his throat and his feet slow down until he's at a dead stop.

None of the photos are of the lacrosse game. Well, they are of the lacrosse game but of only one player.

 

 _Scott_.

 

And after that, there are other picture of Scott. Some of him in the hallways at school, some of him walking home, some of him from outside his own house.

The trees rustle around Stiles and he looks up, noticing just how far he ran, how far the lacrosse field has gotten. The creepy, paranoid feeling rushes over him. He needs to make it back to Scott. 

“Give it _back_ , Stiles.”

Stiles spins around and there’s the camera boy, the dirtiest look on his face. Stiles' hand drops to his side, the cold metal of the camera pressed harshly in his palm.

“So you can stalk Scott more?” he asks, anger and fear whirling around his stomach and head.

“Call it what you want,” the boy retorts, calm and apathetic, “Nobody will believe you.”

“How do you know my name?” Stiles deters, his body preparing itself for a fight. The boy picks up on the change in Stiles' stance and he clicks his tongue. 

“Because you’re _always_ there, Stiles. Always with my Scotty. It’s sickening.”

“Don’t call him that,” Stiles growls, “Keep away from him, you freak.”

“You know what, you don’t want to do this,” the boy prompts, bowing his head and reaching into his back pocket. “Really, Stiles, all I need is a reason. Every word that comes from that foul mouth of yours adds to the list of why you _shouldn't_ be - and why _I_ should be with Scott.”

Stiles senses the rising danger even before the boy reveals his hand - showing off a small blade that’s glimmering in the faint light of the field beyond. His eyes are hungry as he moves forward.

“Cocky son of a bitch,” he sneers, “Didn’t you threaten me earlier? What happened, Stiles? Where’d that shit talking go?”

Stiles steps back, too terrified to run but afraid to stay. He could make it back to the field if he’s fast enough but the boy is directly in the way, giving him leeway to grab him - and although his built isn't impressive - not strong - something about his current demeanor makes Stiles think he would do more than get one slash in.

There’s a crazy look in his eye, a kind of violent lust.

“You don’t scare me,” Stiles lies, palms sweating so much that the camera almost slips out of his grip.

“Fooled you with the Allison letters, huh?” the boy chuckles, keeping in step with Stiles’ own, “You should learn to keep your nose where it doesn’t belong. That way I can buddy up with Scott, finally talk to him without _you_ \- without his little sidekick friend -”

“Buddy up?” Stiles interrupts, trying to come up with a plan, jumping when the camera falls from his hand and hits the ground by his foot.

The boy peeks at the camera mildly before his face goes back to Stiles.

“Well, I planned to. You seemed to be hanging around Allison a lot so I thought, _hm_ , let’s get Stiles to pay attention to something else. Let’s see if he can rip his eyes away from Scott for one little second so I can _talk_ to him. You're an eyesore, unnecessary.”

The boy touches the tip of the blade with his thumb and shakes his head, fond look in his eyes.

“And it worked. You suddenly disappeared from Scott’s life for a few days. I was about to take my well deserved chance to get to know him better but uh - _heh_ \- you had to show back up, didn’t you?”

“I'm sure you wanted an innocent talk,” Stiles replies, hard, furious, pointing to the camera on the ground, “And for the record - your little letters had nothing to do with me and Scott.”

All of a sudden, the boy’s face scrunches up in sweltering rage and he flies forward, straight at Stiles - but he’s jerked back and disarmed, his wrist pinned to his back and his body slammed to the ground all in one swoop.

Stiles gapes, watches the assailant sling the knife away from them and pin the boy down into the leaves. The boy struggles against the guy on top of him but is unable to move. 

“Hope you have a decent lawyer,” the man sighs, stone faced, snapping a pair of cuffs onto the boy without batting an eyelash.

Stiles is still in shock, his body trying to process that he’s not threatened anymore - unless this new guy is a possible threat. The man notices him and stands up, yanking the boy up with him, gripping the back of his shirt. He shoves the boy back in the other direction, making a _tch_ with his teeth, “Whatever was going on here, is over.”

The man releases the boy’s shirt long enough to grab the knife and camera off the ground. When he picks up the camera, he assesses Stiles for a second time.

“Run and that’s more charges under your belt, Matt."

The boy in cuffs' foot lifts and drops with force. He glares menacingly at both of them.

"Screw you."

Stiles doesn't know what to say as the man studies him. There’s a hollowness about him, one that’s unsettling. It hits him all at once where he’s seen him before.

He’s the figure from the woods.

The dark, emotionless eyes, the stiff stance, it's him.

“You’re not in shock, you’ll be fine,” the man assures Stiles, grabbing onto Matt’s shirt again, jerking him closer. “Can’t say the same for you. What is this? Your third assault? Let’s see if you can weasel your way out of the system this time.”

As the two walk off, towards the street instead of the field, Stiles is still at a loss, still sort of running on empty fumes. After recovering a little, he rushes up to them, reaching out for the man’s leather jacket - but retracts quickly when his eyes widen at Stiles - like a warning.

“Mind explaining?” Stiles asks not so nicely, the words _thank you_ getting trapped in his lungs. “I saw you creeping around the school -”

The man appears reluctant to give him any information at all, looks like he's going to walk off. But he must sense the overbearing annoyance about Stiles that forces everyone to give in anyways.

“This runt here -” he suggests, pushing Matt forward, “Stalked my sister for three weeks so no I wasn’t _creeping_ around your school. I was keeping an eye out for when he decided to pull something stupid like tonight. This isn’t his first crime. Not his first assault with a deadly weapon either. We done here?”

“You must be first choice for prom," Stiles proclaims to the boy, hostile. Matt glares back, thrashing in the man’s grip.

"You're so tough now that I'm in cuffs, Stiles."

“A lot of reports on you, aren’t there, Matt?” the cop points out, gripping the back of his neck tightly. “Good thing my sister caught you carrying this at school. Knew you couldn't resist using it again.”

He spins the knife in his hand and then pockets it, moving Matt in the direction of the street once more.

“Wait, I know every cop in Beacon Hills,” Stiles calls out, “I’m the Sheriff’s son. I would remember you.”

“Ever heard the term  _undercover_? _Sheriff's son_?" the man grits out, “Forget you saw anything and go back to the lacrosse field.”

It made sense, explained why Stiles had never seen the guy before. Undercover cops were off the radar as far as the police force was concerned. They did a lot of dirty work in the shadows, hardly seen or heard by the public. Stiles clenches his fists. 

“You still didn’t tell me your -”

Before Stiles can say anything more, the man is in front of him, cold expression on his face.

“You keep your mouth shut about this whole thing. Not a word to anyone at school, not to your friends.”

Stiles stares back and nods slowly, more threatened by this man than the kid who had a knife to him a second ago. The cop shows his badge - proof that he can arrest Matt - and once satisfaction crosses over Stiles’ face, he shuts his leather jacket.

“It’s Derek.”

That’s all he says before he goes with Matt towards the street, pushing him into a black car, driving off.

  


 

 

The game is over according to the cheering people swarming the field. Stiles feels like he’s limping back to the field even though he’s perfectly fine, physically.

Jackson is being held up by the team with a trophy in his hand and his name is being chanted. Numbly, Stiles passes all that noise, even passes where Melissa and the Sheriff are speaking with Lydia and Allison.

There’s too much noise.

He finds solace in the parking lot, in his jeep, blocking the screaming out, siting behind the wheel - trying to register everything that went down in the woods. It's all a strange flash of colors now, as if it didn't actually happen.

A tap on the glass shoots his heart into his throat. Oh, it’s only Scott. He smiles at Stiles and goes around the jeep to hop into the passenger's side.

“Hey, why’d you run off? You missed the winning shot,” Scott scolds, shutting the door so it’s silent again. Stiles bites the end of his lip, where it's already starting to split.

“Uh - I -”

Looking into the shining eyes of his best friend, Stiles can’t pick out how to tell him that _he_ was the one being watched the entire time. That some creep was going to do who knows what to him. That the person they assumed was the stalker - who is apparently a cop - just hauled his ass off to jail or whatever right before Stiles got stabbed.

Yeah, not a buzzkill. At all.

The joy drains straight from Scott's face as he observes Stiles.

“You’re shaking."

Stiles stares in surprise, down at his hands which are white at the knuckles and trembling against the steering wheel. He doesn’t know what to do.

How to explain.

“Stiles?”

It’s not the right time. He can’t say what happened. He can’t get it out.

He can never get anything out. It’s _never_ the right time.

Scott exits the jeep and the sound of the door shutting echoes, hurts a little.

 

_No. Don't’ go get anyone._

_Don’t get my dad. Don’t let him know._

 

A burst of cold air hits Stiles’ hot face as the driver's side opens and Scott gets close to him, hands gentle on his arms, concern embedded all over his features.

“I got you,” Scott promises, rubbing one of his arms, like asking for permission. “Okay, Stiles?”

He doesn’t ask what happened, doesn’t pressure Stiles into talking anymore - just watches carefully, presses his palm over Stiles’ wavering hand for comfort.

“I’m going to drive you home if that’s okay. Is it?”

Stiles nods without a second thought and gets out of the jeep. He’s never let Scott drive before because honestly, this jeep shouldn’t be driven by anyone else, but he’s too out of his right mind to argue.

They don’t say much after that, not until Scott parks into Stiles’ driveway. They don’t talk about how worried their parents are going to be or if Allison and Lydia are looking for them. Not at first. Not until it starts running around in Stiles’ already racing thoughts. He shifts uncomfortably and unbuckles, feeling the onset of what he wanted to avoid since the woods.

“You gotta call Melissa, tell her that we left. She’ll worry -”

“I’ll call her later,” Scott discloses, eyes on Stiles, “And your dad. Let him know you’re home.”

“Allison and Lydia-”

“Won’t miss us,” Scott cuts off soothingly, “Stiles, I’m not all that worried about them right now.”

Not worried about _them_.

The unsaid connotation is obvious but Stiles tries to fight it. He can feel his breath starting to rasp.

“Well, I’m good now. Thanks. I’m gonna head in.”

The lightheaded buzz blurs his vision when he jumps out of the jeep so Stiles grabs onto the door handle for a moment before trudging to the front steps of the house. 

“Stiles, hey, hold on.”

Stiles knows the panic attack can set in at any moment. He hates it. It’s a slow tremor coursing through his body. It’s hard to open the door, hard to turn the key into the knob - but he does it somehow and stands in the safety of his home. It’s almost enough to stop it all, to drown out the rush of blood to his head.

“ _Stiles-_ ”

Up the stairs.

Bedroom.

Stiles doesn’t remember when he laid down but all he can see now is the ceiling. He’s blinking rapidly, the circulation returning to his body. Scott’s face hovers over him and he looks worried - so, so, _so_ worried.

“You almost passed out on me,” Scott murmurs, “Shit, Stiles. I’m calling my mom.”

“No,” Stiles protests, grabbing Scott’s wrist, “Don’t tell anyone.”

Scott’s eyes are bleary in wanting to understand and wanting to help. He let’s Stiles grab onto him so that he can get off the floor of the hallway, where he must have went faint.

He’s able to make it to the bedroom and onto his bed now at least. What a relief. He’s okay now.

Panic attack successfully avoided.

“I need some sleep and I’ll be fine,” Stiles lets out in a much quieter voice than he likes. There’s no response from Scott so he opens his weary eyes and looks at the doorway where Scott is still standing. He's visibly more torn up than Stiles feels.

“You practically blacked out, Stiles, I need to know that you’re-”

“I’m _okay_ ,” Stiles argues, kicking his shoes off as if to make a point, “Want me to swear on the bible or something? I just got a little weird at the game, kinda freaked out for no reason.”

“There’s a reason.”

Stiles fluffs his pillow and presses his head into it, releasing some of the built up shock. When Scott doesn’t move an inch, he shuts his eyes.

“I’ll tell you tomorrow, Scott, okay? I need this right now though. I don’t want to think about it anymore.”

Scott is silent for a few minutes and then shifts at the door.

“Want me to go?”

Stiles ponders that, curls his fingers restlessly beneath his pillow, refuses to look at anything.

‘Yeah.”

There’s no sign of movement and Stiles inhales through his nose, pretends he’s fine, that he didn’t face down a blade not even an hour ago.

_It’s not a big deal. Just a knife. He wouldn’t have hurt me. It was fine. I could handle it. I was okay._

He inhales again, a little louder, and swallows it down, sliding his eyes open.

Scott is by the bed, peering down at him, hand on the headboard.

“You don’t want me to leave, Stiles.”

The breath escapes from Stiles’ chest again.

Scott isn’t crying or anything but there's something about the way he's staring that makes Stiles believe he might any second. Mindlessly, Stiles shifts enough so that there’s room - and Scott doesn’t waste a second laying next to him.

The shock dies more and more and Stiles isn’t on the verge of an attack now. Maybe he’s more safe in this house. More safe in his own bed. But with Scott, he’s safer than the confines of any walls.

Scott leans forward a little - waits for Stiles to recoil or push him back but when he doesn’t - he brushes a kiss across his forehead, lingers there - _I’ll stay as long as you want_ \- and let's go.

When he pulls back, Stiles moves close again, accidentally follows Scott like he always does. Bewildered, Scott’s eyes track Stiles’ own, then trail to his lips for a moment. He exhales a little before flickering his gaze back up to Stiles' eyes. For some reason, there's a hint of guilt in his expression - of something that doesn’t make sense. 

Stiles doesn't understand. 

Hastily, Scott breaks their eye contact and chooses to pull Stiles forward against his chest, chooses not to mention whatever just happened, chooses to let the moment pass, unsettled, like so many other things.

Stiles pretends it doesn’t mean anything.


	10. You First

Scott catches Stiles in the hallway - or Stiles catches him rather - and they talk like normal, like they always have, but Scott can’t brush off the constant pressure hanging over his head whenever their eyes find each other. It’s been a week since Stiles came out about the stalker and lacrosse field incident and ever since, Scott has been listening and watching for any changes in Stiles’ behaviour.

So far, things didn’t seem so bad.

Except that Stiles would space out every now and then and somedays, Stiles wouldn’t talk much. He would disappear after school, not saying bye to Scott, hardly texting him. Scott attempted to drag information out of him when he got the opportunity but Stiles could dodge his advances without breaking a sweat.

It was _frustrating_.

“Who are you taking to the carnival, Scott?”

Stiles and Scott turn around to see Lydia approaching them. She looks at Stiles too, as if asking without saying the words.

“What carnival?” Scott replies, searching Stiles’ face - watching as his attention has zeroed completely in on Lydia now.

“The Valentine's carnival, obviously,” she answers, blinking back at Scott, “Downtown. Tonight. Everyone’s going.”

“Are _you_ going?” Stiles swoops in not so subtly. He holds back a wince - Scott notices - when Lydia ponders the question.

“Well, nobody’s asked me,” she drawls, pursing her lips, “But I don’t need a date to enjoy myself.”

Scott can see the anticipation on Stiles’ face, the way he’s mustering up the courage to blurt out that he’s available. At the same time, he sees Allison and she’s going up to them from the lockers, fixated on Lydia too. The carnival flyer in her hand.

Crap.

Allison and Stiles notice each other and their expressions suddenly harden, like two lions after a gazelle. They rush at Lydia, mouths open -

“Wanna go with me?”

Pause.

All eyes fall on Scott.

It’s as if someone dropped a ton of cement on his head the moment the sentence flies out of his mouth. He represses a whine and refuses to meet Stiles’ gaze, because who knows what’s waiting for him there, but Allison’s is unavoidable. She’s perplexed and hurt. He kind of hopes someone will knock him out so he doesn’t have to look anymore.

Lydia, on the other hand, doesn’t look upset at all. She considers it thoughtfully and even smiles, readjusting her purse, almost shyly.

“If you don’t have other plans, then, I would like that.”

She glances at Allison, tries to read her, waits to see if she’s opposed to the arrangement but Allison flashes an approving smile so Lydia looks back to Scott.

“Eight O’clock then, Scott? I’ll text you later.”

“Mhmm, cool,” Scott responds anxiously, watching as Lydia and Allison take off, huddled close and speaking in hushed voices. There’s a long moment before he remembers that Stiles is still standing to his right. Knowing he has to face this at some point, he looks at his best friend, maintaining the best guilty face he can.

“Stiles-”

“What are you doing?” Stiles asks, voice rising, “That’s Lydia. The girl that I - Scott, seriously, what are you _thinking_?”

“You and Allison were both going to ask her out so I thought if I asked first then neither of you would get rejected and. . . Get your feelings hurt.”

“This isn’t first grade, Scott,” Stiles rolls his eyes, “You honestly asked Lydia out because you were worried we would _get our feelings hurt_?”

“I don’t know, it came out of nowhere, sorry. It was dumb.”

“You have to break it off with her,” Stiles goes on, waving his hands around his head, “You pretty much asked her out of pity.”

“It wasn’t _pity_ ,” Scott denies, growing a little defensive, “I like Lydia too. Just not the way you do.”

“That’s not how it seemed from over here.”

Scott stares at him, having nothing else to add because _what could he say_? He can see the hurt fogged in Stiles’ eyes now too, the way it was with Allison, as if he betrayed them somehow, and his stomach feels like it’s caving in on itself.

 

_Don’t be upset. I’ll make it okay._

_Don’t be mad at me._

_I promise to do better._

 

“If I tell her why I did it then she’ll know you like her - and Allison too, remember?” Scott argues, “Besides, it’s not a date or anything, she doesn’t want me like that.”

“Lydia can decide who she wants to be with for herself. Have a great time,” Stiles mocks, stalking off.

Scott hates the everlasting disappointment echoing in Stiles’ voice

He doesn’t watch him go, he’s afraid to see.

 

True to his word, Scott picks Lydia up at eight. Right on time.

He had to give himself a mini pep talk in the car before jogging up to the door, to figure out how to untangle this problem. So far everything was smooth sailing. Nothing out of the norm for two friends going to the fair or whatever. At least, he hoped so.

At the carnival, Scott doesn’t find it hard to hangout with Lydia. She’s easy to talk to, much easier than half the guy in school make it sound, in his opinion. She’s funny too, more than he expected. Throughout the few hours they spend together, he can’t help but grow on her a lot, forming a closer connection. It’s nice to be himself with her.

It’s not until Lydia asks if they can go on the Ferris Wheel that Scott gets nervous.

Because while he was hopeful, there’s still a chance she thinks this is more than platonic. And the worst possible thing he can do is reject Lydia after watching her laugh all night.

As soon as they take their seats, the ride starts and they get higher and higher into the air. Scott notices Lydia wrapping her arms around herself, closing in physically. Which bothers him for some reason. Because maybe it’s not just physically.

Maybe Lydia’s used to closing herself off to others.

“Without the greasy food and animal pen smells, it’s actually pretty,” Lydia notices, leaning her upper body onto the cart, watching the shooting and spinning lights of all the rides beneath them.

“Yeah,” Scott replies, looking out too - antsy.  

Lydia stares a bit longer and then pulls her jacket closer, holding it against her chest for warmth, peering over at him, “You’re a really great guy, Scott.”

“So are you,” Scott answers instantly but when she raises a curious eyebrow, he stutters, “Uh - no, I mean a great girl, obviously. _Girl_. You’re totally a great girl, Lydia.”

She breaks out into another carefree smile and then folds her hands in her lap, on top of her bare knees.

“Are you flirting with me, Scott McCall?”

Scott’s eyes widen and he opens his mouth -shuts it - then opens it again but Lydia beats him to it.

“Relax, I’m teasing you. I’ve known you and Stiles since grade school. I think you’re the only boy who didn’t googly eye me.”

“Is that a good thing?” Scott questions, concerned about the direction of this conversation.

“It means,” she replies, amused, “I can’t imagine why you asked me instead of Stiles out tonight.”

What she was insinuating takes what seems like years to seep in but when it does, Scott’s face reddens and he has to leans over the cart again for fresh air. He has no idea how to take that or how to respond to it.

“You’re going to make someone really happy, one day,” she adds, voice more serious and intact, the smile fading from her features. She drops her gaze to her lap and breathes in and out, staring back out at the carnival tents.

It’s there - at that moment that Scott can see why Allison and Stiles are in love with her. She’s so strong, fighting her loneliness, surviving in a world where she accepts being misunderstood.

“Hey,” Scott breaks out softly, moving across the cart so that he’s sitting next to her now, placing his hand over her own for reassurance, “You’re going to find someone who cares about you more than anything in the world. Trust me. And when that happens, I can say _I told you so_.”

She looks back at him and swallows, inhaling shortly before nodding, appreciation clear in her features. And he knows that she cares about him too, the same way. She squeezes his hand and hides her face, slightly embarrassed.

“Thanks, Scott.”

 

The carnival games are harder than Scott anticipated. He’s already spent another five dollars at a shooting one, to win Lydia something - be a gentleman. She’s entertained at least, praising his efforts through laughter. As he picks the toy gun up for one last round, someone takes it out of his hand and shoots the targets, hitting each one with perfect accuracy.

“Allison,” Lydia scolds, clearly more than happy to see her.

Allison puts the gun down, throwing Scott an apologetic but not really all that sorry look while pointing to the biggest, fluffiest stuffed animal they had so she can give it to Lydia proudly.

“My hero,” Lydia states, hugging the bear - looking up through her lashes at her fondly.

“Where’d you learn to shoot?” Scott gawks in amazement, thinking he deserved to get shown up anyways.

“My dad,” Allison shrugs humbly, swiveling her head. “By the way, Stiles-”

“-Has cotton candy,” Stiles greets them, appearing from behind Scott. They lock eyes briefly but it doesn’t last for very long. He hands his cotton candy stem over to Lydia, watching as she pulls a piece out from the cotton candy to feed to Allison.

Allison squints at Stiles, glowing - _nice try_.

“I’ve had to deal with Stiles all night,” Allison complains jokingly, “Save me, Lydia?”

“Scott couldn’t keep up anyways,” Lydia agrees and grabs Allison’s hand as if were the most natural thing on the planet. Scott swears rockets just went off for both of them. As they go, Lydia sends Scott a knowing signal, conveying her thanks and that she’s figured some secret out he himself doesn’t know yet.

A few kids scream nearby and it breaks that thought, leading Scott back to Stiles, to his obvious silence. It’s awkward so Scott shoves his hands in his pockets and puffs air out from his lips. People laugh and shout around them, bringing him back to where they are.

“We’re doing the haunted house,” Scott decides, leaving no room for debate, because he has to alleviate the atmosphere. Stiles hums in approval, like he already forgot they were fighting, or he doesn’t want to talk about it, and they head off.

The second they’ve stepped inside the haunted house, something pops out - getting them both to jump in reaction. Glancing at each other, they slowly grin.

“Scaredy cat,” Stiles plays, nudging Scott with his shoulder.

“Uh - okay - Is that why I see piss on your leg, Stiles?”

Pushing Scott forward, Stiles chuckles, and they go into a black hallway with eerie red lighting on the ceiling. Heavy breathing resounds from behind one of the walls up ahead, which freaks them both out a little.

“I can’t see,” Stiles grimaces, sticking close to Scott from behind, his body heat a reminder of when this situation was reversed, when Stiles was the one in charge, and Scott followed. Now, Scott takes the lead. He isn’t the scared little boy in the woods anymore from when they were kids  Their days of chasing make-believe monsters in order to run from the real ones.

In the torture room, a girl’s arm is gruesomely sawn off and Stiles grabs Scott’s bicep, preventing himself from fainting. Scott doesn’t think much about it, he’s too focused on the man chained up to the wall, howling out in agony. It’s unsettling, scary, and churns his stomach. Overall, the house is pretty creepy but they sort of laugh off most of it, shuffling through the dark rooms, bodies pressed closer and closer as time goes by. Nearing the light at the end of the tunnel, they race each other to the exit - until a masked man runs out from a wall with a chainsaw.

Stiles freezes, all fun and games disappearing for him. He doesn’t move, not even when Scott shakes him. The man inches closer, revving up the fake weapon, so Scott tugs Stiles forcefully out of the house, leading him behind the ride’s wall, where there’s nobody looking.

“It’s me, just me, Stiles,” Scott murmurs, getting him to look up. Stiles is quiet and then chuckles awkwardly, rubbing the sweat off his forehead.

“Uh, yeah. I know it’s not real. I was caught off guard is all.”

He’s about to play it off and move on to another ride but Scott blocks him.

“We have to talk about it.”

“What?” Stiles retorts, “The chainsaw guy? I already told you-"

“Someone tried to stab you, Stiles,” Scott interjects in a low voice, “And you could’ve gotten hurt.”

Stiles stares back at him, caught off guard for a second time.

“I didn’t, it’s done - zilch left to say about it,” he blurts, doing the lip biting, “So quit keeping an eye on me all the time. It’s annoying.”

Scott remains quiet, steps back out of Stiles’ space, heart sinking.

“If you didn’t try to protect me, you wouldn’t have been in danger.”

 

_It’s my fault. You getting hurt._

_I wasn’t there for you._

_I’m sorry._

 

Cheerful shouting echoes overhead, on the rollercoaster nearby. The silence between them drags out and Scott finally looks up again and his heart drops further and further. Stiles’ face is in horror, like he was just told a very bad joke. He steps forward off the wall, back into Scott’s bubble.

“Are you kidding me, Scotty?” he asks sadly, in disbelief, “That was nobody’s fault except the kid who’s ass is going to jail for attacking me. He could have hurt you too. Get that? He _would_ have hurt you if I didn’t get lucky,” he explains, “Okay? I got _lucky_ that I found him out. If not, he might have tried something on you. Something bad.”

Scott swallows thickly and shakes his head.

“It doesn’t matter. You could’ve died, Stiles. And he was after me and what if-”

“Shut up,” Stiles cuts off, “We could talk about _what if_ all night but the point is, he’s gone and nothing happened to us. It’s not your fault and it’s not mine. We’re okay.”

Drinking that in, Scott knows it’s the truth, and he sighs some of the guilt away but the rest is still buried inside, threatening to burst.

“Well, I’m sorry about Lydia,” he spills out, thinking it’s best to do that too while they’re at it, “I shouldn’t have intervened.”

“No, I acted like a dick,” Stiles shoots back, “Lydia doesn’t belong to me or Allison or anyone. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

If that wasn’t music to Scott’s ears, nothing was. Stiles blinks at him and ducks his head, swiping the back of his knuckles up to his cheek.

“Besides,” he says, the sternness replaced with a softer tone, “I told you before, but I guess I have to repeat it. I like Lydia - like really _really_ like her, but-”

In wonder, Scott tilts his head, patient and seeking. Visibly embarrassed, Stiles scratches his arm and then kicks out at Scott’s ankle lightly, moving back towards the crowd, as if changing his mind.

“I bet you’ll scream on more rides than me. Let’s go.”

“Wait, what were you-”

“How about the fireball first? You’re totally going to shout your head off, dude.”

Going with it - because once Stiles’ changes his mind there’s no convincing him otherwise - Scott runs after him anyways, to the roller coaster, weaving through the crowd. Acting like kids, they slide into the seats, buckling themselves in, pumped, throwing harmless shade at one another.

It isn’t until the ride is about to start, when all voices are mixing in together, that Stiles peers at Scott and leans over an inch. Scott’s heart beats wildly and he doesn’t even understand why.

“I like Lydia,” Stiles whispers, waiting for Scott to meet his eyes. He then inhales and gives a weak smile, one that doesn’t quite reach.

“But there’s someone I like just a tiny bit more.”

Scott is brought back to that night, the first time Stiles said it. When they were huddled under his covers until Stiles dozed off against Scott's shoulder. And back to the recent morning in Stiles' bedroom, waking up to his sleeping face after holding him all night, eating breakfast together as if it were a normal thing - and Scott realizes Stiles has been telling him this all along. 

That regardless of his feelings for Lydia, he's always thought of Scott as. . . As more important.

The ride begins, shaking back and forth, jolting them back to reality. And in the end both of them scream, excited and exhilarated, forgetting the heat and tension of their recent arguments. Falling back into their silent, shared happiness. 

When the ride rolls to a slow stop and they're holding onto each other as they leave, pointing out their next destination, Scott looks to Stiles.

"Next time, I'll ask you," he swears gently, "not Lydia - not Allison - I'll ask you first."

Stiles turns his head, pupils dialing, and searches Scott's face.

After a beat too long he blushes, looking away quickly.

"Yeah," he laughs, "me too."

 

 


	11. I think I'll Survive

Scott and Stiles are sitting together on the steps at school, chatting idly about the weekend when all of a sudden, Scott stops mid sentence, eyes wide. Stiles sways his head out to look at whatever the problem is.

“Who’s Allison talking to?” Scott wonders. At first Stiles thinks this is some jealousy thing -  _Scott, she's an attractive female, dudes are gonna talk to her -_ but no, that's not it.

In the distance, on the sidewalk of the parking lot, is Allison. And right in front of her - Derek.

“That’s him,” Stiles gapes, dragging Scott up so they’re standing, “That’s Derek.”

“ _Seriously_?”

Immediately, Stiles pulls Scott along with him until they’re closer yet still out of earshot. Their conversation doesn’t last for very long however and Derek is off, leaving quickly, footsteps heavy and fast paced. Allison watches him all of two seconds before she turns around, gasping at the same time Scott and Stiles appear, surrounding her.

“What did Derek say to you?”

“How do you know him?”

“Is this about Matt?”

She squeezes her eyes and throws her hands up, patiently waiting for them to back off of her. When they do, she lowers her guard again and raises her head, squinting at them.

“Yeah, he was telling me about that creep.”

She blinks at Scott - they both know who he was really after. Stiles steps forward, gesturing for her to spit out more details.

“Some other girls heard about him stalking me,” she explains, looking to Scott again, “They don’t know it was actually you. So, um, they came forward and Matt apparently assaulted a few in the past. The guy has a history of relationship abuse.”

“Who would have thought?” Stiles adds with a scoff but Allison keeps going.

“And after he told me Matt was going to jail, he asked me something kinda weird.”

The two boys glance at each other silently, then back to her as she finishes. She chews her lip and sighs.

“He asked about my aunt Kate.”

“Why?” Stiles cuts in, overly eager.

“I'm not sure. My aunt’s been staying at my house for a few months. I told him where to find her.”

“You told a guy you don’t know your address? Are you _crazy_?”

“He’s a cop, Stiles.”

“So? Ever heard of abuse of power? You see it in the system all the time,” Stiles scorns, turning to Scott like he wants back up but Scott doesn’t pick up on the hint.

“Whatever is is,"Allison continues, "Aunt Kate will deal with it. She can take care of herself."

"Unless this guy isn't who he says he is."

Allison sighs a second time, smiling to Scott as if saying -  _how do you deal with this_ \- and having nothing left to say about it, she walks off, leaving them alone.

“Well, that’s great. Some shady guy comes up to her and she gives out information like it’s a walk in the park. Why aren’t you worried about this?”

“He wants to talk to her aunt, it has nothing to do with Allison,” Scott answer innocently, “Besides, Derek is a cop. I don’t see a problem.”

“I don’t trust him,” Stiles deadpans, following Scott back inside, muttering to himself down the hallways. “This guy had a bad vibe. I don’t like him.”

“He saved your life, remember?” Scott exasperates, already ready for school to be over. He sits in front of Stiles in class, dumps books on the desk, and rummages for homework at the bottom of his dirty backpack.

“Or he waited until I was in danger so he had a reason to arrest Matt,” Stiles suggests casually. He catches the disappointment crossing Scott’s features and rolls his eyes. “What? He was on this guy’s ass for a while from the sound of it. He couldn’t make an arrest without probable cause.”

“Stiles, come on.”

Coach calls roll and they don’t talk about it anymore after that.

 

 

“Who the _hell_ is this guy?”

Stiles blurts it out - a much louder volume than necessary - which prompts the door of his room flying open, his dad at the door, furrowed eyebrows, detective side at work.

“Is that my laptop?”

“Yes,” Stiles responds, nodding slowly, still typing away without flinching. It isn’t until his dad jerks his chair backwards, prying him from the keyboard, that he panics. “Okay, hold on, dad - wait - “

“Stop taking what doesn’t belong to you, Stiles. Go. To. Bed.”

“But, dad, hear me out. There’s this undercover cop right and I need to find out why he’s in town and -”

“I don’t care if the Pope is in town,” the Sheriff shoots back, crinkles forming at the forehead, “It’s way past your bedtime, kid.”

“Dad, listen to me for one second.”

The Sheriff loosens his grip on the chair and crosses his arms, waiting for whatever holy explanation Stiles is about to pull out of his ass.

“Do you know anybody named Derek?”

The Sheriff doesn’t seem amused in the slightest, in fact his face has gotten a little redder from anger, and he snaps the laptop shut, picking it up.

“No. Now get some sleep.”

Dejection falls over Stiles the second his dad leaves, like someone knocked him over. Pissed off, he sneaks downstairs and steals a bottle of liquor from his dad’s cabinet, and takes the keys to the jeep with him.

 

 

“Dude, what are we doing?”

Scott’s staring up at the ceiling, his arm dangling off his bed, his head at the end of it instead of on the pillow. Meanwhile, Stiles is sitting in Scott’s computer chair, arms folded over the back, legs propped up on the desk, expression quizzical as he ponders Scott’s question. Instead of giving a coherent response, he takes a much needed swig on the liquor, offering it out to the other eagerly.

“Hey,” he begins, smiling lopsided, “We deserve to chill out sometimes, right? I mean - what’s it gonna hurt?”

“Your dad’s the Sheriff and you’re a minor,” Scott murmurs, taking the bottle lazily and putting it close to his lips but stopping, “And my dad was a bum drunk. I should slow down.”

“Well, guess what, Scotty,” Stiles breaks out, diving into lecture mode, rolling the chair around in a circle until he’s face to face with Scott again, “I’m tired of listening to my dad’s rules. And screw yours.”

“You don’t mean that, Stiles.”

The draft from the night air goes into the room and it bothers Stiles enough to where he swoops up, slamming the damn window shut, and returns to the chair. Scott is pursing his lips - just kinda making weird expressions every now and then as if he’s thinking a little too hard on something. A habit of his.

“I have a bad feeling about this Derek guy, Scott.”

“Why? Let it go sometimes, man, forget about it.”

“I can’t,” Stiles tries to explain, unsure if it’s even possible to communicate the racing, constant, _obsessive_ mindset once an idea has settled in his head, “It won’t stop.”

“What won’t stop, Stiles?” Scott asks quietly, going more somber, fighting the alcohol to pay attention. Stiles licks his lower lip and shakes his head.

“Everything.”

Scott is about to sit up but decides not to - maybe it’s too hard, his head might be swirling around. As soon as he sucks in a breath, Stiles goes first.

“I love my dad,” Stiles admits quietly, taking the bottle back from Scott and drinking it for so long that Scott throws him a worried look. Stiles quickly removes it from his lips and wipes his face with the end of his sleeve. “But he’s there too much. Always hovering and waiting for me to mess up or I don’t know - I wish he would trust me sometimes.”

“That’s not true,” Scott mumbles, “He’s protective of you, you know that.”

“Yeah, I know. Why do you always do that?”

“Do what?”

“See the good in everyone? I can’t do jack squat without feeling bad about it because of you.”

Scott just laughs, the contagious, _amazing_ laugh that he has. Stiles would laugh too if he weren’t so intent on tracing the outline of Scott’s face with his eyes. God, that’s creepy.

But he does - and he watches the way Scott’s fingers move against the bed sheet, kind of like they’re playing with an invisible string. How he absent mindlessly shuts his eyes for a while and reopens them, as if he’s afraid of falling asleep, and the way he sighs every now and then - gentle and relaxed.

“You feel bad about stuff, Stiles. You just won’t admit it.”

“Uh huh, sounds more like you’re pushing those goody two shoes vibes on me again.”

“Hm. Maybe.”

The time goes by, unnoticed by both of them. They don’t mind. It’s been ages since they talked, well - they talk everyday - but like, not _really_ talked.

“You know, Lydia asked Allison to be her valentine,” Scott exclaims, turning his head so he’s looking at Stiles, “But I don’t know if she meant it romantically or not. Allison doesn’t know either.”

“Well, aren’t they cute?” Stiles mutters - a little serious but also accidentally bitter - “Next thing you know, we’ll be at the wedding.”

“Don’t be jealous. Allison deserves Lydia.”

“You say it like I don’t.”

“Because you don’t.”

The warmth in Stiles’ face drains until it’s cold and he shifts in the chair, planting his shoes against the carpet, firm and hard.

“Gee, thanks a lot.”

“I meant,” Scott breathes in and is back to ceiling watching, thumbing the bed sheet without much thought, “You and Lydia won’t work out. You can’t.”

“Hold on, you’re telling me after all this time - you support your ex girlfriend over your best friend? That’s pretty crappy of you, Scott.”

“It’s _because_ you’re my best friend,” Scott tells him softly. He doesn’t sound like the usual Scott. The careful Scott who isn’t nearly as open with Stiles as he _could_ be. The one who twists words around so that they’re not nearly as harsh as they _could_ be. Scott could have said and done a lot of things that Stiles deserved by now. But he hasn’t. And he won’t. He’s Scott.

“What does that mean?” Stiles asks, dropping his arms off the chair, mouth ajared, seriously racking his brain over it. The alcohol is definitely in his system, making his judgement a little bit off - but Scott’s words somehow sober him.

“Nothing, Stiles, forget it.”

“No, tell me,” Stiles urges, pushing his shoes forward so that the chair slides straight up to the bed and he can directly look down at Scott’s dreamlike state. “I can sit here all night. Until you spill out whatever’s bottled up in that freaking head of yours.”

“You stay all night anyways,” Scott reminds sweetly, saying it as if it were a compliment - or a request. He meets Stiles eyes and _shit_ , that’s not good for his heart - not at all.

It’s not everyday Scott is so honest. Stiles knows that much. The ADHD is Stiles’ excuse for having no filter but Scott _does_ have one. Also, a moral conscious. Maybe that’s a tiny bit of it.

“Remember in fourth grade when I gave you that ring pop?” Scott brings up suddenly, shutting his eyes, “And Theo thought I was proposing?”

Stiles gets off the chair and sits on the floor, puts his elbows on the mattress and ducks his chin into the crook, never tearing his gaze away from Scott.

“Theo? I almost forgot about him. Let me go throw up now.”

“He wasn’t all that bad, Stiles.”

“Yeah, he was,” Stiles defends quickly, sitting up, wishing Scott wasn’t still such an angel in his buzzed state, “He was with Lydia all the time.”

“No, he wasn’t. Lydia barely spoke to him.”

It’s quiet and Stiles wiggles again, trying to get comfortable on the floor but it’s difficult.

“Yeah, well - He wouldn’t stop annoying _you_.”

“So? Neither would you.”

“But I’m allowed to annoy you.”

“Mmm.”

Scott rolls over so that Stiles can’t see his face anymore and a small panic kindles within Stiles’ soul.

“I kinda miss it,” Scott mutters, hard to hear because his voice is muffled, “Not worrying about much. Not worrying about paying the bills on time. About getting into college someday. About the future. We didn’t really understand a lot of the crap happening around us back then. It was pretty good.”

“It’s still good,” Stiles shuts down, determination bubbling up, “Why don’t you ever talk about this when you’re sober? Am I always going to need alcohol to drag it out?”

The last part he tries to come off as comical but he’s dead serious and it kills him. He doesn’t even realize how emotional he’s starting to get for no reason at all. Just listening to Scott’s breathing and being with him and thinking about college and the future and marriage and -

“I wonder what it’s gonna be like, years from now,” Scott thinks out loud, ignoring Stiles’ concern. “Maybe you _will_ marry Lydia. You guys might have a cute little dog or something. A nice house too. Allison will probably find another girl - or guy - I don’t know. I hope my mom is happy though, she deserves the best.”

And his future vision doesn’t even include himself. Stiles drops the bottle of alcohol on the ground.

“You'll probably be a deputy and then the Sheriff. Like you’re dad.”

Stiles says nothing, he just stares, each word out of Scott’s mouth wearing him down. The light of Scott’s lamp glows a pretty shade of orange over the room, over the walls, casting their shadows. Scott inhales and his voice is clear this time.

“I gotta tell you something.”

He turns over and when he does he goes farther than he means and ends up only a few inches from Stiles’ own face, so close that Stiles can see the shine of liquor still on his lips. They look at each other and Scott’s totally dazed, blinking at Stiles, searching for whatever he was about to tell him.

“What, Scotty?”

Stiles barely recognizes his own voice, it’s breathy - raspy.

“Do you love Lydia?”

He’s soft spoken and even in the silence barely audible. Stiles isn’t sure how to answer the question. He honestly doesn’t know.

“Did you love Erica?” Scott follows up, as if he doesn’t expect anything anyways but needs to ask. Something about the sound, the way he whispers - it’s _agonizing_.

“No,” Stiles hears himself say. It’s easy. Not some horrible thing he had to keep a secret. He said it and nothing bad happened.

“You kissed her,” Scott presses calmly, “And you want to kiss Lydia.”

“No, I didn’t,” Stiles enforces, surprised at how natural it is - not _lying_. “And no, I - with Lydia - I don’t. I don’t really need to kiss her.”

“But you told me. . .”

Clockwork turns in Scott’s mind, like he’s piecing something together. It doesn’t take too long for him to return to gazing at Stiles.

“You didn’t kiss her.”

“Nope. I lied.”

“Then why’d you kiss _me_?”

Well that wasn’t expected. Stiles lowers his head and curses, chooses to just clambers up onto the bed - much to Scott’s shock. He climbs over him, very aware of all the accidental brushing up against each other as he does. Then he lays back next to Scott, hand over his stomach, wishing he could come up with answers to everything Scott wanted but he can’t.

“Here’s what I see in my magic crystal ball, Scott - I have a perfectly clear picture of the future, the best vision in the freaking world. Wanna hear it?”

Scott angles his face again so that he can peer at the other. Stiles takes in a deep breath and releases, bumping a knee to Scott’s own, looking in his direction with a smile - a sad one that helps him dream and hope, let’s him imagine the impossible.

“You and me. That’s it. That’s all I see. It’s all I ever see.”

It doesn’t matter how Scott takes that. If he takes it the right way, the wrong way, good or bad - Stiles doesn’t care. He doesn’t need to explain and Scott doesn’t need to hear an explanation. It’s how it is.

“Stiles,” Scott answers after a long time, after decades maybe - but that’s all he can get out. He swallows and his lips part a second time, eyelids falling, cheeks flushed.

“Scotty,” Stiles says back, hushed, the name like a treasure - meant for nobody else.

The world takes a back seat for a minute. No other sound, no other person, no other worry to cloud the moment. Nothing.

Nothing stops Scott from brushing a thumb at the corner of Stiles’ mouth and not even a second later he kisses him - applies the best and worst kind of pressure. The kind that’s safe and caring and needy and fearful. The kind that’s longing for something but never actually taking it.

The explosion in Stiles’ chest ripples through him when Scott doesn’t stop or pull back - because he expected a peck but no - Scott is kissing him. _Really_ kissing him.

“You’re drunk,” Stiles lets out painfully - but makes no move to push him away. His willpower is only so good. Even if technically there was none in the first place.

“You’re my best friend,” Scott counters - like _that_ makes up for anything. It makes no sense actually. His fingers curl into the crook of Stiles’ neck, gently rubbing, eyes shut, lips still cautious.

Before Stiles can dare say anything - he _seriously_ doesn’t want to talk anymore if he’s being truthful - the door downstairs slams and wakes them both up, snaps them back to reality. Out of the two of them, Scott is the one who flies up and grabs the glass bottle on the floor so he can hide it under all the trash in the bin. It happens so fast, Stiles forgets how to move, even when there’s a knock on the door, he remains where he is.

“Come in,” Scott calls evenly, like it’s a normal Friday night - like they weren’t just drowning themselves in booze, on the verge of making out.

Melissa peeks a head in.

“Stiles,” she notices first, disturbed but not surprised, but that’s because Scott is sort of hidden behind the bed still. He stands up in a hurry.

“Hey, mom,” he greets, any alcohol induction swept away by the _I ’m a perfect son_ charm. Stiles is pretty impressed yet incredibly envious.

“Sorry, I forgot to leave you dinner, honey. I picked up a pizza after my shift and left it downstairs. Stiles can get a slice too.”

“It’s midnight,” Scott informs slowly, watching as she checks her watch in disbelief. The sheer fact he can tell time right now is Oscar worthy.

“Oh, wow. Okay. Did you get something to eat earlier then?”

“Yeah, a burger with Allison on the way home from school.”

“Great. Sorry, I hope I didn’t wake you two up.” She looks between them, suspicions rising - which has to be due to Stiles keeping his normally loud mouth shut. Mostly because if this were his dad - they wouldn’t have lasted a second. Good thing Melissa trusts Scott to the end of the Earth. Well, mostly.  “Not that you two ever sleep at a reasonable hour.”

“We’re about to,” Scott chuckles, going to the doorway, “I’m gonna grab some extra blankets.”

“Get some rest,” Melissa orders Stiles when Scott’s gone. He grins and nods, internally cringing. It sucks because he can’t even blame the liquor for his dumb actions. She hesitates but leaves it alone, even if she knows they’ve been up to something. The Gods have given them pity tonight.

Melissa leaves at the same time Scott brings fresh sheets back to the room. When he shuts the door behind him and throws everything on the bed, right on top of Stiles without warning, he goes to the closet.

“Dude-”

“I’m tired,” Scott discloses, which has to be true because he sounds like he just ran a marathon. The red on his face proves he’s still pretty out of it, pretty buzzed, it’s a miracle Melissa didn’t catch on. Normally, they slept together in the bed - they’ve done it since childhood so nothing was unusual about it really. Although it was always weird getting caught by Melissa whether she commented on it or not. 

“I think I’m gonna take the couch,” Scott mumbles, unable to look at Stiles as he grabs an extra pillow from the closet, tucking it under his arm. “See you in the morning.”

“Are you kidding me?”

Stiles finds his energy again and flings himself off the bed, blocking the way before Scott can touch the door handle.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Scott.”

“Get out of the way, alright? I don’t feel like arguing right now.”

“Then _don’t_ ,” Stiles challenges, uneasy under Scott’s hazy stare, “You’re not really going to pretend that didn’t just happen, are you? Can we  _not_ be that cliche.”

Scott is unresponsive, must have decided not to fight, and plops face down on the bed with a groan. Possibly from the liquor. Or embarrassment. Or neither.

“Will you just turn the lights off and shut up, Stiles?”

“Happy to do it as soon as we talk about this.”

“I don’t want - “ he grabs the pillow and stuffs it under his head, closing his eyes, “You said it yourself that I’m drunk. Forget it.”

Ouch.

Stiles has to mentally weave a bunch of excuses for that, has to think of ways it can be interpreted so it’s not what he assumes. Unless Scott really is implying he only kissed Stiles because he was drunk. Which is stupid. And childish.

“You’re not _that_ drunk. You held a conversation with Melissa.”

Scott doesn’t have much to respond with and he probably won’t. Stubborn. Stiles flicks the lamp off and crosses the space to him. He jumps on the bed, crawls next to Scott and flips him over without warning so he’s forced to look up.

“Did you kiss me because you’re not totally sober, Scott? Is that what you want me to think?”

Even in the dark he absorbs the pretty brown of Scott’s eyes. His heart hammers in his chest because while he’s acting brave - he’s terrified Scott will agree and that will be the end of it forever. Scott believes he’s meant to be with Lydia anyways. So, there’s a high chance he’ll make something up and ignore all of this together. Maybe run away.

"That's not it," Scott urges, emotion returning to his voice. Nerves twisting together, Stiles speaks again.

"So, why, what is - do you not. . ?"

 

Do you not - ?

 

 

Do you not  _what_?

 

Stiles swallows the rest of that down, courage dying with it.

“You said it didn’t mean anything before, at summer camp,” Scott exhales, crestfallen, “So, we can pretend it didn’t happen again, like before. If that’s what you want. I don’t want you to feel like - “

 

 _Stop_.

 

Stiles has never acted so fast in his life.

Sure, he’s an impulsive brat - greedy and irresponsible to top it off - but when he leans down and closes the space between them, when he presses his lips to Scott’s own, he doesn’t think about how undeserving he is or how messed up it is or anything. He _feels_ everything instead.

Feels like he wants to make sure Scott knows how much he’s always cherished him. Empties out every promise into Scott’s mouth by melting into it, dragging his nails into his best friend’s jacket without a second thought.

“It always means something, Scotty,” he whispers, pecking his lips over and over, “You should know that.”

 

_Always when I’m with you._

 

At first, he’s afraid that maybe Scott doesn't return the sentiment until he feels him responding. Scott trailing his hand to Stiles’ back, tentatively - like they haven’t touched each other before or something. Scott not quite pushing back but easing into it, probably wondering if this is real or not, and when Stiles opens his eyes ever so slightly, he finds that Scott’s are closed - peace on his face.

He touches Scott’s cheek, roams a hand over his ear and temple and against his hair but it’s short lived because Scott breaks away, out of breath, lust and confusion misting his vision. There's a pause before Stiles complies, doesn’t try to kiss him again, just waits for anything - unable to grasp the idea that Scott has more willpower somehow. Even with a harder buzz.

“I don’t know,” Scott tries to say in one breath, “I’m still kinda - with the drinking. I just don’t want to and. . . I want to remember.”

The embarrassment is obvious from a mile away even as he’s steadying himself, gaze lingering on Stiles’ lips, regret piling up the longer Stiles doesn’t respond. There's so much Stiles wants to say. So much he needs to pour out while they're here, in this moment. But he doesn't, he has to wait. Wait for Scott to be more mentally and emotionally aware. 

Besides, he's sure this isn't even close to their last moment.

“I’ve waited my whole freaking life, I think I’ll survive,” Stiles jokes, smiling in all earnest, meaning every word. He drops next to Scott, into the other pillow with a yawn, feigning like he’s tired too which he’s not. “You can still go sleep on the couch if you want, by the way.”

Scott glances at him, like he’s unsure if he made the right decision. After a beat, he smiles too.

“Shut up, Stiles.”

Stiles yawns again, turning over so that his back is to him. It’s quiet and it takes every ounce of self control he’s ever built up not to turn right back around. Weirdly enough, Stiles has never felt more comfortable and happy in his life. He should feel strange about it, right? Kissing his best friend.

But he doesn’t. Not at all.

It's overwhelmingly nice.

“Yeah, you too, buddy,” Stiles hums, insides warming, conveying his feelings without saying the actual words. It’s okay though.

They both know what he means.


End file.
